the momentous business of the toilet had
to be gone through, and then a drive of five
miles accomplished, before Mrs. Parker and
her three fair daughters could find themselves
at the ball. Edward was the only occupant
of the room; seated at the piano, on which
his fingers idly strayed, he now and then
struck chords of deep melancholy, or broke
into passages of plaintive sadness.

"Alone, alone! How the silence of this
room strikes upon my heart,—how long this
evening will be, without her voice, without
her footstep! And yet this is what awaits
me, what is inevitably drawing near. Next
week I leave the roof under which she
dwells; I shall not hear her singing as she
runs down stairs in the morning; I shall not
have her constantly at my side, asking me,
with her sweet childlike earnestness, to teach
her to repeat poetry, or to give expression to
her music. The welcome rustle of her dress,
the melody of her laugh, will soon become
rare sounds to me! Within, around, beyond,
all is dark, hopeless, solitary. Life stretches
itself wearily before me, blind and
desolate as I am! Mother, mother, well might
your sweet spirit shrink when you contemplated
this for your miserable son!—How
strange those last words! I thought of them
to-day, while I made her wreath of roses,
and when her sisters told me of the numbers
who flock around her. Every flower brought
its warning and its sting!"

"Edward, have I not made haste? I wished
to keep you company, for a little while before
we set out. You must be so sad! Your
playing told me you were sad, Edward."

She was standing by him in all the pride
of her youth and loveliness: her white dress
falling in a cloud-like drapery around her
graceful form, her sunny hair sweeping her
shoulders, and the wreath surmounting a
brow on which innocence and truth were
impressed by Nature's hand.

The sense of her beauty, of an exquisite
harmony about her, was clearly perceptible
to the blind man; he reverently touched the
flowing robe, and placed his hand upon the
flowery wreath.

"Will you think of me, dearest, to-night?
You will carry with you something to remind
you of me. When you are courted,
worshipped, envied, and hear on every side praises
of your beauty, give a passing thought to
Edward who lent his little help to its adornment."

"Edward, how can you speak so
mockingly! You know that in saying this you
render me most miserable."

"Miserable! With roses blooming on
your brow, and hope exulting in your heart;
when life smiles so brightly on you, and
guardian angels seem to hover round your
path!"

He spoke in a manner that was unusual
to him; she leaned thoughtfully against the
piano, and, as if unconscious of what she
was doing, disengaged the garland from her
hair.

"These poor flowers have no bloom, and
this bright life of mine, as you think it, has
no enjoyment when I think of you, sad, alone,
unhappy, returning to your desolate home,
Edward."

"Dearest," he returned inexpressibly
moved, "do not grieve for me. Remember,
my mother left her blessing there!"

"Was it only for you, Edward?"

There is a moment's silence; he covers
his face with his hands, his lofty self-denying
spirit wrestles with himself: when, gently
the wreath is laid upon his knee, her arm is
passed around his neck, her head with its
glory of golden locks is bowed upon his
breast.

"Oh Edward, take the wreath, and with it
take myself if I deserve it! Tell me that
you are not angry, that you do not despise
me for this—I have been so unhappy, I have
so long wished to speak to you.—

"Mary, Mary, forbear! You try me beyond
my strength; beloved of my soul, light of my
sightless eyes, dearer to me than language
can express, you must not thus throw yourself
away."

He would disengage the arm that is clinging
to his neck, but she nestles closer still.

"Mary!" he cries wildly, "remember!
Blind, blind!"

"Not blind near me; not blind for me.
Here, Edward, here my resting-place is found;
nothing but death shall separate me from you.
I am yours, your friend, your consoler, your
wife. Oh, tell me you are glad."

Glad! His previous resolutions, his
determination to owe nothing to her pitying
love, all faded in the unequalled happiness
of that hour, nor ever returned to cloud the
life which Mary's devotion rendered
henceforth blessed.

This is no fiction, reader, no exaggerated
picture; some, who peruse this, will testify
out of the depths of their hearts how, in
respect and admiration, they have watched
Mary fulfilling the promise of her beautiful
sympathy and love. She has never wavered
in the path she chose to tread; she has never
cast one lingering look at all she resigned in
giving herself to him. Joyous, tender, happy,
devoted, she has seemed always to regard her
husband as the source of all her happiness;
and, when the music of children's voices has
been heard within their dwelling, not even
her motherly love for those dear faces whose
sparkling eyes could meet and return her
gaze, has ever been known to defraud their
father of a thought, or a smile, or the lightest
portion of her accustomed care.

No, dear Mary! Years have passed since
she laid her wreath on his knee; the roses,
so carefully preserved, have long withered;
but the truth and love which accompanied
the gift, are fresh and bright as then:
rendering her, as her proud husband says, almost