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GERTRUDE'S DREAM.

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GERTRUDE'S DREAM. ,Êi:, Sketch of a Wife's Jealousy and its fiV. acdr -> just reoQvCMBg from a severs illness, at i tuldah j an i v 1< V chamber, trying to *.Iy >er need! but hfn' fin!;E;rS did not move as was '« woni, and at length, with a heavy sigh, she s.lin red the work to fail upoêJhe- lap. "Dear mother, you are not strong; enough to yet, Oh, wi you would take more rest. If y how sad and sorrowful it makes me to see vou rsrio! kiie speaker was- a delicately formed girl, with soft hrown hair and Lj, ?e blne fyos, and with a faoe if not wa5 lovely in its childish iaBooence and ml c> tr ,å¡;.sh¡] spoke she went to her mother's side, i her arafabeat her xiesk, and i, kisEed fcey tr "»t > cheek. Dear mother o r-e time to get well. If you will pit away YOtir. -»•»>•♦ <» I wilt find something to do 1 thing frem which: I can e ifn enough to help us Oir. until brig coma." "Brighter -uttcvo,,i iVfe, Dansaii, mourn- ally. Aii, fie ;furi >, -.hen c-hall we see them ? "When yon get weU a-d strong, dear mother. isai-ely the caya be toeii." "Al&s, my child, the -.Utrhi-sess of earth has faded away for ever from mo. I shall not he Str-fctog any She fi&w '■ ne a-jq(i l>ff of psrin-t-hat he-to words had called tb the fÐ.ce of her daughter, and she tly added— "BM you, Gertrncts, wm yet be joyous and happy. ?0!i e a blessed chÜd, you are so good and true, so and so i >»u if T «• t »self'aaotifibia'g; There h hapi >es n kr-vou." And why not for on. x >iher?" cried the child, again kissifao th&-t "J le c ->rJ "surely you ought to be happy. God n* let yon Suffer always." '• Gertrude, b-i y nviU' after a paasa, "I must meat r doc.ra. You, would urge me to take raore rest-? from V',>haU Rest fro 0.1 physical labour, that I mj- su.,fermore mentaHy. What have wa in the house t'hl1; ti cai Odll our own ? Where will we find our next loaf of tread ? "_1 have money fvJl- fh'vb, mother." <!But how can've 0 y thu, do 'sor? csHe will wait, L"jt-ber. "Gertrude, I must ply my noodle. I will rest to-day, aad to-morrow I will to work. I shall feel better so-'tiormw, Y&ii mast UOJ ii.V*vtete with me>in this." The pttle Woman leaned her head against the tf&ck of her Ohais*, and pressed her hand upon her brow, and the child., taking a. seat ndt far away, re- garaod her .mother with a wistful, anxious look. Gartude, what ia it ? Why do you look at-me so f H»TO you basn dreaming again ?'" "y e. mother. I iaave dreamed again, but it was the same old dream." As the niTsiid rnv~*p~. ici? faceonoe more, t,hechild <1rew her low si^il «^ to' her'aide, aiid- sweated both !ier hand-3 Bpon knees." Dear mother, yrxLdo':ü.ottruôti me f-ally." ertude! C)b, mother, if-yon knew how much I could help TOP, if you knew how my lteait- yearns to, Bhare all far griefs, you would not beep anything from me. >a asked me if I had been dreaming again. I might truthfully tell yem' that I am dfefeming all the time. 1'nat face, once sO strangely fixed upon my mind, 13 nsver absent from, me. Oh, if ycu would tell me what E feel that I have a; right to krlow." my child I" Do not m off again, mother. I am no. longer the child of ot yoars. I a-m;foarteen;tiow, Mal am going to speak ^j.^nly. I know you will not forbid \e Go on, Crr'r-Ce." Tho child k One of her mother's hands, and said, a low, quivering yoicø- "You haya' ,:I",ve;: tDld nlC,in plain words, that my £ a,ther was daa-d." Mrs. Duncan star-ted as -th,)ugh, she had received a sudden and sharp blow from some unseen hand and before her daughter could speak further she aroae from her chair and walked to the window. She stood there some little time, watching the lengthening shadows of t-lie closing day, and when she came back she had her hands folded aad pressed upon her heart. t £ Dear mcther, if it paias you so muob——" No, G-Srferade. It is time that you knr-w the hQ-th; and EOW, before I again commence ray toil, I vili give to you the lesson of my life. I have not kept the truth from you becGmseI would deceive you. Far from it, I have siznaly kept it because I would taste the full cup of my great sorrow alone. Do you it member, my child, that you once asked me why had marked with my pencil a certain passage of StH'iptee?" Yes, mother." Asd Ro you. remember what. it was ? "Yes,ifor I have eften read the verse since, and wondered whyyoa were so strangely affected by it." iiead it fiow, Gertrude." I ean recite it, mother. It is the sixth verse of she last chapter of Solomon's Song: 'Set me as a seal UPOIl t-kine heart, as a seal upon thine arm for love is ■■rong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the lJoals thereof are coals of firo, which hath a most .7c" ement flame. Oh, Gertrude, my dear child, may yøu never know the tenth of this. One moment-one- moment. Fear nop: these tears will do me good." Ene IwJng the woman wiped her eyes, and then, her child nearer to her, she said— Gertrude, you shall know the whole story now. I WM only 18 when I became the wife of Henry Dasican. Me was aandsome, and well-educated, and good and I won him-for my own while many others were anxious to find favour in hia eyes. He was not wealthy, but he was steady and industrious, and was able to give use a-good heme. I'os a few months I was the hsppi- eit, among the happy; but at length a dark-visaged rsioaetor crept into our homo, and instead of turning Lib.o intruder out I invited his stay. Henry was tso gay, too free-hearted, and too social to settle down at oaeo into the etaid, 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 Fsa, th*3< he smiled upon others as well as upon me, and I, iuthe blind foolishness of my h¡;art, blamed him for it. 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 feaoome 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 course. There were those who had been envious be- cause I haod 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 ten you all tha.t I did and said to my husband. Ee was high-spirited and strong-willed; and when he had borne all that he could bear—and God iiEtiwes he bore enough-he turned upon me so fiercely that ,for a. t.imø he frightened me. You were then au iMoot,. only three months old, and as the care of y me confined most of the time, I had plenty. oportunity to suspect that my husband was spend- iiig his evenings in more agreeable company. And yet, before Heaven, I had no just cause for those suspicions. Only my own folly drove Henry from me, and then I was angry because he left my side. _V'CK era went on in this way for a whole year, and at i e end of that time I had become utterly insane upon one subject. The social comforts which my bus- d could not find at home he sought elsewhere, and he did come beneath his own roof, it was only to mtwith pain and abase. One day information came to him by mail that his cousin was very sick—perhaps ghù tniglat not live—and he told me that he should go .ijd bPS her. His cousin was a bright-eyed, beautiful rl between whom and Henry there had always been • warm attachment, and of her I had been excessively Idalù11S. 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 him ja. He informed me that he had engaged a eonvej allee, shd should be gone within an hour. A few oro r ords passed between us, and finally I told him xt he went I should leave his house never to return. He looked at me a few moments, and then he said—it a™ the first time that he had ever spokes such words --■awd ha was very pale when he said it:—i Go, Sul- if you wish. You and I shall both be happier to iive- a/part!' He left me as he thus spoke,, and within au hunt afterwards I knew that ha was on his way to visit-, hia" cousin. "I had said that I would leave my husband's house, and I resolved to keep my word. I gathered ttpmy clothing, I -and having seenred my scanty stock of jewellery and ihy little money that I possessed, I sent, for a carriage to come and take' ma away. I lelt no psng when I took my child in my arms aiid went out froti- that house, I only felt that I would be revenged upon my hnoband. milea away) in &. neighbouring town, 1ivedanaunt of mine-a. simple-minded, good tear ted woman, who had loved me dearly when I was a ob.;Id-, and to her I went. She listened to my story, and- as- she believed it as I told1 it, she felt that I hiid- been deeply wronged; and mea h0rne'ba:r.:e'at'l:fh1' ■oof. A few days afterwards I received a letter from Henry. It was very short—only asking if he might come and sea me. Oh, it was not Hhldah Dunota that answered'that letter. It was an evil spirit that had I possessed her. At that moment the spirit of the wife was with the father of her child; but the fiend sat down and5 wrote, and this w«s what was written: 'That I wished to see my huabi»nd 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, a&d;the;fou-l fiend fled1 away. Amazed at first- in; view of what I had done, an-d-then ooatiite and almost broken-hear ted, I took my-pfen and wrote to ray-husband; I wrota as I felt. I actoawWledged-my eritor—my sin—and T told him- if he woald- let me come back to him that I would prove by a life-of Un- deviating devetion how truly a-nd deeply I loved him. I sent the lebter; but no answer- came baofe to raei Wtfen the first snow of winttes? lay upon tee ground, an old-aequaint-ance passed'our door, from whom, I learned that Henry Dan-can had gone to Australia. Btfore the winter had passed my aunt Sloke-Bedand died, -and when the spri-iig' came' I was- forced to seek a1 new hODlB;, I fead'-a-iittle nion^y; bi-it I hadf no ftieads-to whom I dared apply for awistance. For a time I lived comfortably^ oonsiderirJg'my mighty grisf:; at the end of two years' my money had gone, and my MendS'also. 11 you know the rest. You know how I have, laboured, and bow scanty has been niy buzrd; but. voa do not litoo w how I have siffi-iared,-und, I pray GodVnat -you never may HuldahiDancanbowed her face upon her hands, and sobbed aloud, while the child throw her arms about bar mother's neck and kissed her. Have you never heard from ray "father Eince he went away?? Never, Gsrtrude." Bat he may come baok." Hush-! Oh, wake not such a thought withiura He is dead, Gert;rude-dead to;you and me. Bat«ee— it has grown dark, end, you have not yet hpd, your sapper. Spoik no more now. God bless you, my child! bless you-always." Late in the erening, when the mother and child were reaciy to retire; Gertrude, who had been strangely thong htfuV sads refleetivej gentily whispe»d-— I think l shall dream again, mother." Hush, darling 1" I shall dream agaia, mother." Dreame areddle things, Gertrude." h Not when they make us hopeful and happy. Perhstpasnofe And-yet if we baild5 too much upon such hope it may be worse for uiai" We can hope and pray." "Yeat, my child." Then suchl hopes: will I cherish." "Ah, Gertrude, your eye is-bright, and your faoa is stamped with eagerness. You are hoping too much. Alas, poor child! your dreams are leading your thoughts Mtray. Pray-for- strength to support you in the aw destined to endure-while travelling through-this vale of tears." '■ I will pray, mother." Andimaythe God of the fatherless heardad-aasWer your prayer." In-the morning, when Mrs. Dilncan awoke, aho fotmd that Gartrucile had got breakfast almost ready. "Ah, my child," said she, with a faint smile, "I think you had no dreams last night." "Dear mother, you are mistaken. It wag, a clream that awoke me. And was it, the Bama old dream ? Wait, mother-wait until our wnrk ia doce—nntil we find-time to sit down-ana 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 affeofc me more wandrously than before." "Ah, my child I 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 mosey enough to purchase a little more food, mother, and I think I can find something to do to help you. At all events, we will not despair." And without waiting for any reply, the girl took her little basket and left the chamber. It was near noon when Gertrude returned. There was a bright IL'ht in her eye, and upon her fair cheek was a tinge fresher and more ruddy than Huldah Duncan had seen there for years. 4' Gertrude-" "Oh, dear mother," cried the child,winding her arms about her parent's neck, "I have had suoh excellent fortune. Yoa muat put your sewing away now. I shall be able to help you until you are strong." "Gertrude,—what mean you? Yoa tremble-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. 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 ia- done. Will you listen to me now ?" "Yes, my child." Gertrude had already removed her bonnet and 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 cime out the man went ia, 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 hissed 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 to^ kini all, I thought he drew me upon his bosom, aQ+iT .m6 ^ere 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, was it not very, very strange? After you had told me your story I hnew I should hive more of my dream. Aucx I did. I dreamed thus: The same maa met me again, and rest-iag upon his bosom, with both his arms wound tightly about me I told him what you had told me--tdld him how you had wronged your husband-ho you had fled from his honae- Ilic) w you ha4 repented in grief and shame- and how, from the bedside of your sick child, 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— 1 ot 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 bim-led bim to your own door 11 Gertrude Gertrude Oh, God have mercy! Why did you tell me this Mother—dear mother—look up." "Huldah! My wife!" And the woman was caught in a fond embrace, and held to a wildly throbbing bosom; not the embrace of a obild-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-ha.s the sunshine come again? Huldah Duncan spoke not then. She could only cling to the neck of her long-lost husband, and weep, hhd sob, and pray. But by-and by, when she could ftilly comprehend that Gertrude's dream had been all a day-dream—and that her husband had been seeking her for a long, long time. and had at length fcrand her through their childandtthllithe had come to iier with all the love and devotion of the heart that was wholly hers, in the; no-rn.1t that saw them madeone at the holy altar-,g,nd, thafc he cotild forgiveall-the paat, and take her to a home-where; every comfort, of earth shonltbbe hers^—then, when she comprehended; all this,1 she gave him both her hand st, and, with a-loving look;, she sebid- Henry, if you can take me back to your home and to your hearty every energy of my life shall be yours, and will preserve your, love as something so* pure and sacred that I would: rather die than that, it should be .snatched from me! Oaoa more, ray husband—upem your bosom—thus. Oh, thank God!"

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