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GERTRUDE'S DREAM.f

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GERTRUDE'S DREAM. f A Sketch of a Wife's Jealousy and its Consequences. Pale and wan, jast recovering from a severe illness, at Huldah Duncan, in her lowly chamber, trying to ply her needle, but her nngars did not move as was their wont, and at length, with a heavy sigh, she allowed the work to fall npon her lap. "Dear mother, yon are not strong enough to work yet. Oh, I wish you would take more reet. If you knew how sad and sorrowful ib makes me to see you suffer so! The speaker was a delicately formed girl, with soft brown hair and large blue eyes, and with a face I yvhich, if not really baaaMM, was lovely in its childish innocence and affection. As she spoke she went to her mother's side, and wound her arm about her neck, and kissed her upon the cheek. "Dear mother, do- take time to geb well. If you will put away your S37,ung I will find something to —something from which I can earn enough to help us on until brighter days come." "Brighter davs! uttered Mrs. Duncan, mourn- fully. Ah, Gertrude, when shall we see them ? When you get well and strong, dear mother. Sarely the days will be bright then." "Alas, my ohild, the brightness of earth has faded away for ever from me. I shall not be strong any more." She saw the shadow of pain that her words tad called to the face of her daughter, and she presently added— "Bat you, Gertrude, will yet be joyous and happy. You are a blessed, child, you are so good and true, so kind, and 80 affectionate, and soseK-sacrifising. There is much happiness in store for you." "And why not for you, mother ? cried the child, again kissing that pale cheek; "surely ycu ought to be happy. God will not let you suffer always." Gertrude," said the invalid, after a pause, I must meet my doom. You would urge me to take more reatP East from what? East from physical labour, that I may suffer moreiiiantally. What have we in the house that we can call ou: ows ? Where will we find our next loaf of breadP" I have mosey enough for that, mother." "But how can we pay ths dcslor f He will wait, mother." "Gertrude, I must ply my needle. I will rest to-day, and to-morrow I will go to work. I shall feel better to-morrow. You must not interfere with me in this." The pale woman leaned her head against the back of her chair, and pressed her hand upon her brow, and the child, taking a seat not far away, re- garded her mother with a. wistful, anxious look. Gertude, what is it ? Why do yon look at me eo ? Have you been dreaming again. P "Yea, mother, I have drsamsd again, but ib was the same old dream." As the invalid covered her faoe once more, the child drew her low stool softly to her side, and rested both her hands upon her knees." "Dear mother, you do not trust me fully." Gertude!" Ob, mother,, if yon knsw how much I conld help you, if you knew how my heart yearns to share all your grietp, you would not keep anything from me. You asked me if I had been dreaming again. I might truthfully tell you that I am dreaming ail the time. That face, once so strangely fixed upon my mind, is never absent from me. Oh, if you would tell me what I feel that 1 have a right to know." "My child!" Do not put me off again, mother, I am no longer the child of other years. I am fonrtaen now:, and I ana going to speak plainly. I know you will not forbid me," Go on, Gertrude." The child took one of her mother's hands, and said, in a low, quivering voice— "You have never told me, in plain words, that my father was dead." Mrs. Duncan started as though she had received a sudden and sharp blow from some unseen hand; and before her daughter could speak further she arose from her chair and walked to the window. She stood there some little time, watching the lengthening shadows of the closing day, and when she came back she had her hands folded and pressed upon her heart. "Dear mother, if it pains you so muoh-" No, no, Gertrude. It is time that you knew the truth; and BOW, before I again commence my toil, I 'Will give to you the leason of my life. I have not kept the tenth from you because I would deceive you. Far from i.t. I have simply kept it because I would ;taste the full cup of my great sorrow alone. Do you -remember, my child, that you -once asked me why I had marked with my pencil a certain passage of Sariptnre r Yea. mother." And do you remember what it was ? Yes, for I have eften read the verse since, and wondered why you were so strangely affected by it." Read it now, Gertrude." "I ean recite it, mother. It is the sixth verse of the last chapter of Solomon's Song: 'Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. Oh, Gertrude, my dear child, may you never know the truth of this. One moment-one moment. Fear not: these tears will do me good." Ere long the woman wiped her eyes, and then, drawing her child nearer to her. she said- Gertrude, you shall know the whole story now. I was only 18 when I became the wife of Henry Dancan. He was handsome, and well-educated, and good; and I won him for my own while many others were anxious to find favour in his eyes. He was not wealthy, but he was steady and industrious, and was able to give me a good home. For a few months I was the happi- est among the happy; but at length a dark-visaged monster orept into our home, and instead of turning t!h!e intruder out I invited his stay. Henry was too gay, too free-hearted, and too social to settle down at once into the staid, sober life of a married recluse; and as many of those maidens with whom he had formerly been free and social still sought his pleasant company at our balls and parties, he laughed and joked, and promenaded and danced with them as of old. He was very oareful not to bestow his attentions on any parti- cular one; but, so far as he could, he treated them all alike. I did not see it then, however. I simply saw that he smiled upon others as well as upon me, and I, in the blind foolishness of my hnart, blamed him for ili. At first he only laughed at me, and told me how foolish I was; but I would not believe him. I had allowed myself to become jealous, and I found plenty of fuel ready to feed the angry flame. And I was not without companions to help me on in my miserable oouree. There were those who had been envious be- cause I had won Henry Duncan, and when they found how my suspicions were running, they failed not to whisper words of warning into my ear. I dare not tell you all that I did and said to my husband. He was high-spiritad and strong-willed; and when he had borne all that he eould bear- and God knows he bore enough-he turned upon me so fiercely that for a time he frightened me. You were then nu infant only three months old, and as the care of y kept me confined most of the time, I had plenty d opportunity to suspect that my husband was spend- ing his evenings in more agreeable company. And vet. before Heaven, I had no just muse for those suspicions. Only my own folly drove Henry from me, and then I w»s angry because he eft my side Matters went on in this way for a whole year, and at the end of that time I had become utterly insane upon that one subject. The social comforts which my huB- band could not find at home he scnght elsewhere, and When he did come beneath hia own roof, it was only to meet with pain and abuse. One day^mformaton came to him by mail that his cousin was nnl dan she might not live-and he told me that he should go and see her. His cousin was a bright-eyed, beautiful girl, between whom and Henry there had dwajEi b<?en a warm attachment, and of her I had bee distant jealous. She had then recently removed to a distant town, and if Henry went to see her, he would have to be gone over night. I told him I would not have go. He informed me that he had engaged a convey- ance, and should be gone within an hour. A few more words passed between us, and finally I told him if he went I should leave his house never to return. He looked at me a few moments, and then he said-it was the first time that he had ever spoken such words —and he was. very pale when he said it:—' Go, Exil- dah, if yov- wish. You and I shall both be happier to live opart!' He left me as he thus spoke, and within an hour afterwards I knew that he was on his way to visit hia cousin. 'I had saidthatlweuldleave my hnsband'shcuse, and 11 esolved to keep my word. I gathered up my clothing, and having seeured my scanty stock of jewellery and the Jittle money that I possessed, I sent for a carriage to come and take me away. I felt no pang when I took my child in my arms and went out from that house, I only felt that I would be revenged upon my "Not many miles away, in a neighbouring town, lived an aunt of mine-a simple-minded, good-hearted woman, who had loved me dearly when I was a child and to her I went. She listened to my story, and as she believed it as I told it, she felt that I had been deeply wronged; and she gave me a home beneath her roof. A few days afterwards I received a letter from Henry. It waf) very sbort-only asking if he might come and see me. Oh, it was not Huldah Duncan that answered that letter. It was an evil spirit that had possessed her. At that moment the spirit of the wife was with the father of her child; but the fiend sat down and wrote, and this was what was written: That I wished to see my husband no more for ever! In one short month from that time my child was taken sick, and by the couch of the little sufferer, worn down with much watching, my senses came back to me, and the foul fiend fled away. Amazed at first in view of what I had done, and then contrite and almost broken-hearted, I took my pen and wrote to my husband. I wrote, as I felt. I acknowledged my error-my sin-and I told him if he would let me come back to him that I would prove by a life of un- 1 deviating devotion how traly and deeply I loved him. I sent the letter; but no answer came back to me. When the first snow of winter lay upon the ground, an old acquaintance passed our door, from whom I learned that Henry Duncan had gone to Australia. Before the winter had passed my aunt sickened and died, and when the spring came I was foraed to seek a new hem*. I had a little money but I had no friends to whom I d,.t.-red apply for assistance. For a time I lived comfortably, considering my mighty gnet; at the end of two years my money had gone, a.nd my friends also. T "Gertrude, you know the rest. You know now i have laboured, and how scanty has been my board; but you do not know how I have EuSered, and I pfay God that vou never may!" Huldah Duncan bowed her face upon her hands, and sobbed aloud, while the child threw her arms about her mother's neck and kissed her. "Harve yon never heard from my father amce tie went away ? Never, Gertrude." "Bit he may come back." Hush! Oh, wake not such a t h ought within m He is dead, Gertrude—dead to you and me. But see— it has grown dark, and you have not yet had your supper. Speak no more now. God bless you, my child bless you always." Late in the evening, when the mother and child: were ready to retire, Gertrude, who bad been strangely thoughtful and reflective, gently whispened-- I thiak I shall dream again, mother. Hush, darling I shall dream again, mother. j) Dreams are idle things, Gartrude." Not when they make us hopeful and, happy/' Perhaps not. And yet if we build too maeh upon such hope it may be worse for us." We can hope and pray." "Yesi my child." Then such hopes will I cherish." Ah, Gertrude, your-eye is bright, and your tace is stamped with eagerness. You are hoping too much. Alas, poor child! your dreams are leading your thoughts astray. Pray for strength to support you in the trials you are destined to endure while travelling through this vale of tears." I will pray, mother." And may the God of the fatherless hear and answer your prayer." „ In the morninsr, when Mrs. Dunoan awoke, ahe tound that Gertrude had got breakfast almost ready. 64 Ah, my child," said she, with a faint smile, I think you had no dreams last night." Dear mother, you aro mistaken. It was a dream that awoke me. (i And was it; the same old dreamB" Wait, mother—wait until our work is done -nntil. we find time to sit down-and I will tell you all about my dream. I think I have never yet told you how strangely things appeared to me in my phantasy, but since I have heard your story they affect me more wandrously than before." A h mv nhilfi ■ 99 Hush, mother. Say no more now. Let us eat our breakfast." When they had partaken of the simple meal, and the few dishes had been washed and put away, Ger- trude put on her hood and shawl. We have money enough to purchase a little more food, mother, and I think I can find something to do to help yon. At all events, we will not despair. And without waiting for any reply, the girl took her little basket and left the chamber. ml_ It was near noon when Gertrude returned, ihere was a bright light in her eye, and upon her fair cheek was a tinge fresher and more ruddy than Huldah Duncan had seen there for years. Gertrude Oh, dear mother," cried the child, winding her arms about her parent's neck, "I have had such excellent fortune. You must put your sewing away^now, 1 shall be able to help you until you are strong. "Gertrude,—what mean you? You ramble—you are excited. What has happened ?" "A strange fortune, mother. I shall have work enough—and such pleasant, easy work, and such mar- vellous pay. I will tell you all about it by-and-by. I But first I am going to tell you of my dream. i pro- mised you that I would tell it, and I shall not. rest until it is done. Will you; listen to me now ? "Yes, my child." dertiudehad already removed her ana shawl, and taking a seat close by her mother's side,, and drawing one of her hands within her own, she said— "Let me tell you my dream, mother, as though it was all dreamed in one night; for, though it came in many parts, yet they all fit together so regularly that it makes one complete whole. Dear mother, I dreamed this I was in the street, standing before the window of the pastry-cook, when a man came along and stopped by my side. I looked up and I thought I had never seen so handsome a face, nor one so kind. I went into the shop and bought some cakes, and when I came out the man went in, and as I stopped a moment to look back, I saw him talking with the cook. On the next day, at the same place, the same man met me again; and before I knew what he would do he bent over and kissed me upon the cheek, and I thought his eyes were filled with tears. He drew me away into the shop; he asked me what my name was, and he asked me about my mother, and when I had told him all, I thought he drew me upon his bosom, and held me there a long time; and it seemed to me as though he was some kind, saving spirit come from the better world, for I rested upon his bosom with a thrill of wild delight, and I thought I could rest there for ever. By-and-by, he asked me if I knew the story of my mother's early life, and when I told him that I did not, he made me promise that I would get the story from her, and that when I had heard it, I would tell it to him. "Dear mother, waa it not very, very strange^ After you had told me your story I knew I should have more of my dream. And I did. I dreamed thus: The same man met me again, and resting upon his bosom, with both his arms wound tightly about me, I told him what you had told me—told him how you had wronged your husband-how you had fled from his home-how you had repented in grief and shame- and how, from the bedside of your sick ohild, you had written him a letter-and I told him what was in that letter-and how that your husband had gone away to Australia before the letter could reach him. And then I told him how you had suffered since. And when I had done, my face and my hands were wet with tears— Lot my tears, mother-no, they were his tears. And by-and-by, when he had thanked God many times, and had dried his eyes, and become calm enough to speak plainly, he asked me if he might go with me and see my mother. And with a glad cry I took the man by the hand and led him-led him to your own door-It I Gertrade! Gertrude Oh, God have mercy! Why did you tell me this iniother-dear mother-look np." Huldah! My wife:" And the woman was oaught in a fond embrace, and held to a wildly throbbing bosom; not the embrace of a child—not to the bosom of her daughter. They were strong, manly arms that held her, and the bosom was one whereon her head had been pillowed before her child had being. Huldah! my wife! Look up. Tell me—oh, tell me-has the sunshine come again P Haldah Duncan spoke not then. She. could only cling to the neok of her long-lost husband, and weep, and sob, and pray. But by-and-by, when she could fully comprehend that Gertrude's dream had been all a day-dream—and that her huaband had been seeking her for a long, long time, and had at length found her through their child-and that he had come to her with all the love and devotion of the heart that was wholly hers in the hoar that saw them made one at the holy altar—and that he could forgive all the past, and take her to a home where every comfort of earth should be hers-then, when she comprehended all this, she gave him both her hands, and, with a loving look, --he said- Henry, if you can take me back to your home and to your heart, every energy of my life shall be yours, and I will preserve your love as something so pure and sacred that I would rather die than that it should be snatched from me! Onee more, my husband—upon your bosom- thus. Oh, thank God!

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