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GRACE DERMOTT AND HER ONE FAULT.

BY ELIZABETH YOUAT T.

"They never loved as you and I,

Who ministered the moral
That aught which deepens love can lie
In true love's lightest quarrel."

BULWER.

one occasion, after dining and spending the evening there, Mr. Willoughby had ventured to request a sight of the drawing upon which Grace had been so diligently employed, only lifting up her eyes now and then to listen, as he thought, to their conversation, but in reality to see that the likeness was correct. But upon her putting it aside with some confusion, the request was not repeated; and Grace laughed quietly at his expense, over one of her very best caricatures.

Grace Dermott was an only, and a motherless child. Beautiful and high-spirited, with no one to contradict, and few to advise her, it was not to be expected that she should be faultless. We none of us are, even the most carefully brought up; and Grace had been accustomed to have her own way in everything. Her father thought her perfection; and his guests petted her as a child, and admired and flattered her as she grew up to womanhood. We do not mean to give a catalogue of all poor Grace's little faults, but only her one besetting sin, together with its con- Mr. Dermott died suddenly, a day or two sequences. We have every one of us our be- after the celebration of his daughter's sevensetting sin, and the lesson may not be without teenth birth-day, at which he had appeared to be its moral. Grace's was the love of mischief- one of the gayest of the gay. His friends were for we can scarcely call it satire. Some may of course much shocked; but still more so to think this a very trifling error, but there are few find that poor Grace was left almost entirely more dangerous to woman's happiness. Wit is portionless. The girl herself never thought of too keen a weapon for her delicate hands to wield that; she lamented only for her kind and affecwith safety, and is sure sooner or later to start tionate parent; and when the first violence of aside and wound its possessor; and its wounds her grief had sufficiently abated to enable her to are of all others the most difficult to cure. What mark the change that had come over those with her caricatures and lampoons-her ready among whom she associated (for, as we have perception of the ridiculous, and exquisite skill said, she had few friends), her resolution was inin hitting off the little oddities and peculiarities stantly taken-the house and furniture were sold of others, Grace made herself many enemies, off, and a situation cheerfully accepted as goverand was set down as ill-natured and satirical, ness in the family of one who had known her in whereas she was only thoughtless and mirth-better days, and would, she thought, be kinder loving. Then she was so young, and every one laughed -how could they help it?-instead of reasoning with her; while the warning that might have put a stop to it at once was never suffered to reach her ears.

to her for that reason. Poor Grace! she little knew the world. Her high, brave spirit, that defied it at first, was soon crushed and broken; but although galled, and disappointed, and heart sick, she remained in this family many weary years of such petty and hourly trials as fret and wear away life itself.

Among the many guests who visited at Mrs. Dermott's hospitable mansion, there was none who afforded Grace so good a subject for the Her beauty faded, her cheek paled, her step exercise of her powers as a certain Mr. Theo- lost its buoyancy, and her haughty spirit was philus Willoughby. He was at that time about chastened, nay humbled to the very dust! The six-and-twenty years of age, although looking flattered and admired heiress, as she was once considerably older; reserved, and somewhat supposed to be, dwindled in her new home to a awkward in his manners, and wore green spec- mere automaton, and was only sought to make tacles. As Grace would have said, he was pe-up a quadrille, or play to others while they culiarly celebrated for having very large and very red hands, and never knowing what to do with them! Mr. Willoughby was a great favourite with Mr. Dermott, to whom he was in return most sincerely attached. While of Grace he knew but little; her brilliant beauty and his own natural reserve placing a barrier between the two which neither cared to pass over. Upon

danced. Very frequently Grace never entered the drawing-room at all, but would sit in her own chamber, listening to the old familiar tunes linked with such happy memories of by-gone days, and dreaming pleasantly of the pastpleasantly because it served to cheat the future for a brief hour of its sadness. And no one ever missed her. It has been truly said, that

our heaviest trials and afflictions are but blessings in disguise. And so Grace grew the better, and meeker, and holier for those lonely hours in which she communed with her own heart, and was still. Sorrow taught her sympathy for others. And the covert sarcasm aimed by the thoughtless and unfeeling against the pale and quiet governess seemed to her to be only a just retribution for the sins of her own youth.

Mrs. Stanly, the lady with whom she resided, really fancied she had done a kind thing in offering an asylum, together with a very moderate salary, to the young orphan, in exchange for her time and talents-we had almost said her life and health, for both were rapidly giving way beneath the ceaseless and unbroken monotony of her toilsome existence. On the birthday of her eldest daughter, a girl of twelve years old, Mrs. Stanly gave a large party, at which the children and their governess were permitted to appear a permission the latter would gladly have dispensed with on her usual plea; and it was no feigned one, of a bad headache; but was informed that she would most likely be required to play quadrilles.

The first person Grace saw, upon entering the drawing-room, was Mr. Theophilus Willoughby and his green spectacles. He evidently did not recognize her; and the poor girl felt sad as she recalled to mind their last meeting on her own birthday, now nearly four years ago. Presently an old lady, who was in the habit of visiting there, spoke to Grace by name, as she passed; and Mr. Willoughby started forward with sudden exclamation of mingled delight and

astonishment.

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"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Willoughby, much shocked. "You are ill! What can I do for you?"

"Nothing-nothing, indeed-I shall be better directly. You will think me very weak and foolish."

Mr. Willoughby answered kindly, placing himself so as to screen her as much as possible from the observation of others, and she soon recovered. They were just beginning to talk together of old times, when Mrs. Stanly called Grace to come and make up a whist-table. "Are you fond of cards?" asked Mr. Willoughby, detaining her for a moment.

No, I hate them!" "Then why go?"

Grace looked up with a melancholy smile, as she reluctantly followed her benefactress. And Mr. Willoughby fell into a reverie, in which that sad smile haunted him, and from which he never awoke until the game was ended, and

Grace instinctively returned to the side of her only friend.

"You have not danced all the evening," said he; " and you used to be so fond of dancing. How is that?"

"For a very good reason," replied Grace, with something of her natural archness, "because no one has asked me."

"I wish that I danced," said her companion, simply.

"Thank you, but I have been very happy tonight-happier than I have felt for years! It is so delightful to be able to talk of my poor father, and my dear lost home!"

"Does she mean that I have made her happy?" thought Mr. Willoughby; while his kind heart yearned towards the daughter of his earliest friend.

Grace was again called away to play quadrilles. At supper-time she had actually vanished, and was most probably engaged in superintending the profusion of delicacies with which the guests were so plentifully supplied. It was late when she again made her appearance, and the company had begun to depart. Mr. Willoughby was standing near the door, waiting ask if they were ever to meet again, but he antito wish her good-night. Poor Grace longed to cipated her, by saying,

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I hope to see you soon, Miss Dermott, very had I been aware of the treasure my friend soon. I should have come here long before, Mrs. Stanly held in her keeping."

There was a time when Grace would only have laughed at such a speech, coming from him; but now she both looked and declared Mr. Willoughby went home to wonder how it herself glad that he was not going away for ever. was that he had never thought to notice her years ago, and to dream of her sad smile and observed his awkwardness-perhaps he had got her sweet voice. Strangely enough, Grace never the better of it-nor his large red hands; but then to be sure he wore white kid gloves! And the only conclusion she arrived at, after lying awake half the night, was, that he was very clever and very kind, and that she had been very foolish and wicked ever to ridicule him.

Mr. Willoughby now became a constant visitor at Mrs. Stanly's. Grace and he frequently never met for weeks; but then it was something to know that he was in the house; and she would often steal to the head of the stairs, to hear him say "Good night," or "Good morning," as the case might be; or perhaps only the echo of his footsteps in the hall, or the sound of his carriage-wheels as he drove away. He managed, however, to find opportunities of telling her how disappointed he felt upon these occasions; and would send little presents of books and flowers, which Grace returned by netting him a purse. What with reading, and working, and thinking, the hours did not seem half so long as they used. Teaching was no longer a task, or solitude a weariness; and even unkindness itself had lost half its power to wound.

was the deep and tender devotion of the strong man for the gentle being who has only him to look to in the whole world; hers the clinging fondness of the green ivy for the oak that supports and shelters it. Very few gave Grace credit for her disinterestedness; but all agreed in pronouncing her to be a very fortunate girl.

One morning, when her pupils had gone out | ness seemed built upon a firm foundation. His for a drive with their mamma, and Grace taken the opportunity of practising on the drawingroom piano, that in the school-room being sadly out of tune, Mr. Willoughby was unexpectedly announced. He did not seem at all surprised to find them absent, being probably aware of the fact; and Grace, having a secret idea of her own, that he would be just as well pleased to find things in their present state, did not think it necessary to apologize. Mr. Willoughby was unusually silent, and the embarrassment of his manner soon became contagious. At his re-feet-so deep was her humility-and tell him of quest, Grace sang one of her favourite songs very sweetly; while her companion, glancing around the comfortably-furnished apartment, and then at the still beautiful face of the fair musician, dreamed a bright home-dream of future happiness.

66 Grace,' "said he, after a pause, "I want to talk to you." It was the third time that morning he had said those very words; but the first time he had called her Grace, and her heart beat quickly. The large hands closed upon her little trembling ones, that sought not to escape; and the green spectacles being removed, she might have seen tears-real tears-glistening in the earnest eyes that were bent upon her so lovingly. And then, in his own simple and manly way, Mr. Willoughby told her of his affection, and made her an offer of his hand and heart.

Grace sobbed out something about her own unworthiness; but her tearful face was hidden upon his shoulder. It was a pity that she was not more explicit; considering their relative situations, they might have been mere words of course. Mr. Willoughby, as in duty bound, interrupted them with a thousand lover-like protestations; at the conclusion of which, Grace confessed herself the happiest girl in the world, and inwardly determined, by the devotion of her future life, to make atonement for the past. It seemed like a dream now, that the time should ever have been when she loved him not, leave alone daring to ridicule and make sport of one so good and noble. She felt, in her humility, as if she could never do too much for him.

The following day Mr. Willoughby called again when Mrs. Stanly was at home, and was formally accepted as the betrothed of her young friend, for so Grace Dermott was now termed. Mrs. Stanly knew well the straightforward character with which she had to deal; and seeing that he was thoroughly in earnest, could only congratulate Grace upon her good fortune, which, as she was really far from being an illnatured woman, she managed with a cordial sincerity that blotted out for ever all memory of the past. Grace was too happy to bear malice. Most girls, situated as she was, would perhaps have ended in accepting Mr. Willoughby, and married, as thousands do who are more to be pitied than blamed, for the sake of a home; but Grace loved him-loved him for his kindness, not for his gold; and was grateful, humble, and affectionate as a wife should be. Their happi

Frequently during their brief courtship, when they sat together sketching bright plans for the future, or talking over by-gone times, Grace longed to fling herself upon his neck, or at his

that one fault which haunted her most whenever he seemed more than usually kind and affectionate. Oh, why were not these impulses of the heart obeyed? We should have no concealments from those we love! and sooner or later every secret is sure to be revealed. Why not reveal it ourselves, in all gentleness, and with tears, and meek atoning words? Under every circumstance of life it is our best and wisest plan; situated as they were, it was her duty! To be sure it was a hard task, for she well knew that Mr. Willoughby believed her to be faultless; but to suffer him to remain in that belief was a species of deceit.

A few weeks before the day fixed for the wedding, which was to take place at Mrs. Stanly's, at that lady's own request, Mr. Willoughby had occasion to go to London on legal business, which would most probably detain him some days. It was the first time that the lovers had been separated, and poor Grace felt a sad foreboding of approaching evil, which she could neither explain nor resist. It was only natural, under the circumstances, that she should feel melancholy, but not so utterly cast down. Mr. Willoughby was touched, and perhaps somewhat proud, at witnessing her excessive agitation-it was pleasant to be so loved and missed; and yet he could not bear to be the cause of her tears, and would willingly have given up the journey, if it had been possible. They separated at length, with the mutual agreement that they were to hear from each other every day. And Grace endeavoured to divert her mind, by taking an active part in the bridal arrangements already commenced under the superintendence of Mrs. Stanly.

Being, as we have elsewhere noticed, of a reserved disposition, Mr. Willoughby did not think it necessary to mention his intended marriage to any of his numerous acquaintance; and visiting no one but his lawyer, spent his time very pleasantly in writing long letters to Grace, or indulging bright dreams for the future, in which she bore the principal part. There was one friend, however, a Mr. Richardson, only lately married, whose invitation to spend the evening, and be introduced to the bride, he accepted at once. He probably felt a new interest in such matters, and was in a humour to sympathize with the evident happiness of the delighted husband.

Mrs. Richardson, although, in Mr. Willoughby's opinion, not to be compared to Grace, was

pretty and agreeable, and evidently desirous of pleasing her husband's old friend. Two or three people dropped in during the evening, and there was some good music and singing, together with a great deal of political conversation between Mr. Richardson and a member of parliament, during which Mr. Willoughby quietly amused himself with one of the journals of the day, while the ladies laughed and chatted together at a side-table.

"So Grace Dermott is going to be married at last," observed one.

Mr. Willoughby gave a sudden start at the but no one noticed him.

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Yes, so I understand," replied Mrs. Richardson." Is it a good match ?"

"I do not know, not having as yet heard any of the particulars.'

Mr. Willoughby felt nervous and uncomfortable.

Miss Dermott was an old schoolfellow of mine," continued the bride, "and one of the cleverest girls I ever knew. We used to correspond, but somehow it dropped off after her poor father died, and she went away no one knew where. She was admirable at a caricature; and had a brilliant wit, that spared neither friend nor foe." "Rather a dangerous qualification in a woman," observed her companion. Mr. Wil- | loughby thought so too.

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The following day she was nowhere to be found. She had gone to London to help nurse Mr. Willoughby; but although he kept continually calling upon her name, he knew her not, Poor Grace! she did not mean any harm; or who it was watched unceasingly day and but I do not really think she could help taking night by his sick couch. After a time, the viopeople off. I have one of her sketches, which lence of the fever somewhat abated, and the is positively inimitable!" Here they lowered invalid recovered his senses we fear without gratheir voices, and conversed together in whis-titude to God or hope for the future. Weary pers; until startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. Willoughby looking pale, and greatly agitated. Mrs. Richardson likewise changed colour, and hastily thrust aside the drawing before her. I should like to look at it, if you will permit me," said her guest, in a calm voice, while his quick eye singled out his own caricature, drawn with such admirable fidelity, that, as Grace had once said, it only needed to look at the hands, to recognize it in an instant.

66

Mrs. Richardson apologized with much good nature for the pain which she had so thoughtlessly given, although she little guessed its ex

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Nay, it is nothing-I am used to these things. The artist, I think you said, was a young lady?"

“Pardon me, Mr. Willoughby, but I must not tell you anything more."

with watching, Grace had fallen asleep by the bed-side; and when Mr. Willoughby turned and saw her pale face, he thought himself again delirious. The motion, slight as it was, aroused her; but fearful of the least agitation in his present weak state, she only bent over and kissed his damp brow.

Speak to me!" exclaimed the sick man. "Or is this only a dream?"

"It is no dream, dearest, but your poor Grace come to nurse you, if you will let her, and to ask forgiveness upon her knees for all that she has made you suffer!"

Mr. Willoughby listened eagerly to her exculpation of herself-to her deep penitence; interrupting her to own that he had been too hasty in judging her as he had done. Their reconciliation followed quite naturally; and Grace covered the dear hands, which she had dared to The initials, G. D., on the back of the draw-ridicule, with her tears and kisses. Mr. Wiling, rendered it unnecessary; and Mr. Willoughby was the first to think of the impropriety loughby, having succeeded in persuading her to give it to him-which she did very willingly, thinking he wanted to burn it, and half regretting that it had not been destroyed years ago shortly afterwards took his leave. Mr. Richardson followed him to the door, to ask him what he thought of his wife.

"She is a woman," replied his guest, bitterly; " and they are all fair and false !"

Mr. Richardson looked hard into the pale

of her presence alone and unattended; and im-
mediately sent off for his old aunt, Bridget
Wentworth, to whom, with her consent, he con-
fided the whole affair. Aunt Bridget came at
once; condoled with her nephew; scolded and
caressed his betrothed alternately, and soon set
all to rights in her own kind and simple way.
"Why did you not write to me at once?"
said she to Grace.

"Ah! how gladly would I have done so.

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we live !"

A few weeks after this conversation they were married, and Aunt Bridget was present. The Stanlys were invited to the wedding, and entertained with a cheerful hospitality that effectually served to banish every unpleasant recollection. The first intimation which Mrs. Richardson received of the mischief she had so nearly and innocently caused, came in the shape of cards and cake from the new married pair. Years afterwards, they all laughed together over the whole occurrence; but there were tears in the eyes of poor Grace, and a feeling of selfreproach in her heart, which Mr. Willoughby's kindness could never utterly efface.

AZETH.

(Written after having read Miss Lynn's magnificent Romance of "Azeth, the Egyptian.")

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

The Boy is beautiful as youth can be,

When youth is sanctified by holy airs That breathe not of the sick world's treachery; Is beautiful as Nature, when she bears Love's impress on her bosom. Earth To him is rife with worth, And yet within his heart there is a dearth! He loveth all! and all things that be fair Are dearer for their fairness-for his path Hath never yet been cross'd

By any spirit of wrath,

Or incarnation of the Demon-toss'd Into a shape of ugliness; nor e'er

Hath sorrow stung him into sighs! What, then, Panteth that heart of sixteen summers for?

Gazeth that mild dark eye in search of? stretcheth That warm and generous hand to soothe and press? Those lips-still longing in sleep's tenderness

Something more dear than bird or flower,
Or pet gazelle in sylvan bower,

To dwell on and caress?

As doth the bee

The thyme-bank in the glen;
The bird its nesting-tree,
The flowing wave its shore!

He loves the beautiful, he loves the true,
He loves the sunshine and its skies of blue,
Warmth, and green shade, and perfume, and sweet
sounds;

But (for he knows there is a God on high,
A Father and a Friend) his inner eye
Looketh at forms whose fairness leaps the bounds

Of limiting outer sight; and one of these
He makes his spirit-love-so wooing her
As one may woo his star of destinies,

With an idolatry that keeps astir
With fever his new blood:

Fit time for prowling passion to intrude,
And scatter aspics where young doves did brood!

The Tempter came: like truth he spoke-like worth
And wisdom preach'd, or reason'd; Beauty, too,
Clothed the foul spirit in fair form of flesh;
And subtle falsehoods, softly chaunted forth,
Seem'd just the long'd-for learning that should strew
The boy's track with knowledge. In the mesh
Of sophistry his bird-like spirit daily
Entangleth itself-nor longer gaily
Doubts and dark fears, like caustic drops that fall
The lark sings in his ears-the flowers bloom by !-
Slowly, but surely, from a poisonous wall,
To taint a rose beneath it, dangerously
Thicken within his mind. The God of love
Behind yon sun becomes-he knows not what!
A shade-a bigot's dream-an aimless nought!
And Love itself a passion, borne above

On sensual wings, that flap like vultures o'er
Things that were hated, if but known before!
And he hath turn'd voluptuary in thought-
(Thank God, not yet in act !) but he is out
Of his fair sphere of purity, afloat

In passion's barque upon a sea of doubt!
He learns that there is sin-one beautiful!
Sad learning and sad lesson !-He no more
Sees beauty all around; on sea or shore,
A mist pervadeth that makes all things dull
That once were bright. The spotted snake
Looks not so harmless in the brake;
Still is it fair-but it may bite
And slay! The scarlet berry take
From yonder bush, but dread to slake

Thy thirst-dash, dash it far from sight,
For it may poison! and yon apple, lo!
How soon to ashes in thy lips 'twill grow !

But suns, that ripen richness, rot rank growth-
And Falsehood hath no strength to cope with Truth-
The east wind blows not ever-from the south

Time brings forth zephyrs full of health and ruth: So came RE-ACTION-80 Vice wore its own Foul livery of sin, abhorr'd when known! Virtue within the Boy was not extinct, Though quell'd by evil influence; Beauty, still, Could charm as much as ever; and unlink'd With physical defect, Love's holy thrill Pervades his heart: the beautiful, the pure, Arouse emotions, which-bestow'd to blessThe world's ungenial nature renders donors Of falsest cruelty for tenderness, And selfishness, whose fondest kiss dishonours! But Love-how blest a thing 'twixt hearts, both

pure,

As his our Azeth's-and that Spiritual One Who hath his highest worship!-Death, be sure, Makes sweeter bridal-beds than ever sun Of earth looks down upon! And so, when she Flitted from life away-an exhalation Of grace and virtue-up into the skies— He, too, beholding where the vision flies,

And kneeling in a silent adoration, Gave up his soul to death . . . too pure to sate Earth's thirsts from earthly wells! too passionate To live unloved, unloving! Lo, he goeth Where Holy Love its sum of loving knoweth !

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