her chest, and being otherwise quite out of
sorts, expressed her firm belief that she should
never see her sweet child again. The dear old
lady consequently bade her adieu resignedly.
On ordinary days Violet would have known
what all this pathos meant; to-day she was
glad to turn it to account, and to appear to
believe it. She spoke to her aunt and to Ella,
and told them that she must absolutely leave
by the afternoon train—poor mamma was
ill, and she could not let her be nursed by
servants. There was nothing to oppose to
this argument. Mrs. Chumley ordered the
brougham to take her to the station
precisely at two o'clock. Launcelot was not in
the room when these arrangements were
made; nor did he know anything that was
taking place until he came down to luncheon,
pale and haggard, to find Violet in her
travelling dress, standing by her boxes.

"What is all this, Violet?" he cried, taken
off his guard, and seizing her hands as he
spoke.

"I am going away," said Violet as quietly
as she could; but without looking at him.

He started as if an electric shock had
passed through him. "Violet, going!" he
cried in a suffocated voice. He was pale;
and his hands, clasped on the back of the
chair, were white with the strain. "Going?
Why?"

"Mamma is ill," said Violet. It was all
she could say.

"I am sorry we are to lose you," he then
said very slowly—each word as if ground
from him, as words are ground out, when
they are the marks of intense passion.

His mother looked at him with surprise.
Ella turned to Violet. Every one felt there
was a mystery they did not know of. Ella
went to her cousin.

"Dear Violet, what does all this mean?"
she asked, her arm round the little one's
neck, caressingly.

"Nothing," answered Violet with great
difficulty. "There is nothing."

Big drops stood on Launcelot's forehead.
"Ought you not to write first to your
mother—to give her notice before you go?" he
said.

"No," she answered, her flushed face
quivering from brow to lip; "I must go at
once."

At that moment a servant entered hurriedly
to say the latest moment had arrived to
enable them to catch the train. Adieux
were given in all haste. Violet's tears,
beginning to gather—but only to gather as
yet, not to flow—kept bravely back for love
and for pride. "Good bye," to Ella, warmly,
tenderly, with her heart filled with self-
reproach. "Good bye," to aunt: aunt
herself very sad; and then "Good bye," to
Launcelot. "Good bye, Mr. Chumley," she
said, holding out her hand, but not looking
into his face. He could not speak. He tried
to bid her adieu; but his lips were dry,
and his voice would not come. All he did
was to express in his features such exquisite
suffering that Violet for a moment was overcome
herself, and could scarcely draw away
her hand. The hour struck; and duty with
brave Violet before all. Launcelot stood
where she left him. She ran down the
lawn; she was almost out of sight, when
"Violet! Violet!" rang from the house like
the cry of death,

Violet—a moment irresolute—returned;
then almost unconsciously she found herself
kneeling beside Launcelot, who lay senseless
in a chair; and saying, "Launcelot, I will not
leave you!"

The burden of pain was shifted now.
From Launcelot and her to Ella. But Ella
—sentimental and conventional as she might
be—was a girl who, like many, can perform
great sacrifices with an unruffled brow; who
can ice over their hearts, and feel without
expression; who can consume their sorrows
inwardly, the world the while believing them
happy.

Many years after—by the time her graceful
girlhood had waned into a faded womanhood
and when Launcelot had become an active
country gentleman and Violet a staid wife—
Ella lost her sorrows, and came to her peace
in the love of a disabled Indian officer, whom
she had known many years ago—and whose
sunset days she made days of warmth and
joy; persuading herself and him too, that the
Cornet Dampier she had flirted with when a
girl, she had always loved.

THE DESERET NEWS.

A FEW years ago a power-loom weaver of
Preston embraced the tenets of Joe Smith,* and
betook himself, with his wife, his mother, and
his goods, to the Great Salt Lake City, the
present seat of the Mormon heresy in
America. Until lately no tidings of him were
received; but presently came letters and some
copies of the Deseret News, to which the ex-
weaver has become the reporter. The
opportunity of a missionary coming home to the
mother country to preach the doctrines of the
Book of Mormon has been taken advantage
of, not only for the transmission of these
letters, but to enable the reporter of the
Deseret News to circulate, in this country,
a collection of discourses which he has
reported.

The Deseret News is not a very imposing
journal to look at. It is printed upon a small
single sheet; the paper is thin but good;
the printing is very fair; and the matter,
however odd, is creditable. The motto of
the Deseret News is Truth and Liberty; the
date of the number before us is "Great Salt
Lake City, U. T., Saturday, April 16, 1853."

.* For a notice of whom see vol. iii., page 386, of this
journal