CHAPTER I.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume III, Issue 153, 7 April 1876, Page 6

CHAPTER I.

and bringing a gleam of light for her for the f uture, in the memory of how niuch she had been enabled to do for the poor unfortunates who crowded the streets of the city. " Our House is to have another wing, and this week we have had a legacy which will help us to many things for our dear orphans." proceeded the sister, as she found the attention of her friend gained ; " we had a strong call this morning — six little orphans of one family, the eldest only lit for the nursery ; some of our good ladies sent me clothes for them at once, and — " "My means are cut off. I hare nothing left thai I can call my own," said Mrs. Benton, with a deep sigh. " O ye?, dew, you have prayers ; ah, if it wasn't for prayer, our alms would do but little good ; besides, you have always been my Lady Bountiful ; it is but fair others should take their turn. You must not have that pleasure all the time," said the sister, playfully patting the baud she held, and looking through the tears in those happy brown eyes, like the sun peeping through an April cloud. " I wanted to see you to-day," said Mrs. Benton, changing the subject. " There is a matter upon which I can ask advice of no on^3 but you — not even Father Roberts ; he is sympathetic and kind, but it seems to me he could not understand a mother's heart as you car» I want to ask which of my daughters I must leave behind when I go ? " " Then you will go to your husband? lam so glad," replied the sister. " I knew you would ; you will have God's blessing for it, and you wish to leave one of the girls to comfort their grandfather ?" " No, sister, I shall leave Willie with his grandfather for a while. I feel that he -will be well cared for there ; but my husband requires me to leave owe of my elder daughters with Colonel Hartland ; he lias no daughter, and has often seriously begged one from us, and now mo are under such vast obligations to him," she paused, and the bright flush passed again over her face, and her voice almost failed her as she added, bowing her head in agony, "he has proved himself a true friend in our sorest need, and this is all we have to give him in return." " This comes upon you severely, Lucy ; I will try to help you in your decision, if this must be." "It must," replied Mrs. Benton. "I must give up one of my girls, at an age when most they need a mother's care, to one almost a stranger, who will claim her as a mother, and worse than all, to people of another faith. This comes upon me (am I not sinful to say it ?) more cheerlessly than my first grief." "It is your mother's heart, burdened at a time when you were not able to bear any addition, with a new weight, a terrible weight indeed ; and the choosing between the two is no easy task ; but we will talk over the matter. Marion is the more robust, and would better bear a western climate." ' Yes, but Rosine's very delicacy seems to me a reason why I should keep her with me ; then I remember that Rosine, though the younger, has the more established principles of action, is more firm in her faith, and better prepared to meet the changes and chances of life. Marion is ambitious, and she might forsake the faith, at least she would feel it to be a great drawback to her advancement in worldly society ; the world would fill her heart and head to the exclusion of better things, were she to be left to herself ; therefore Rosine, with her sweet comfoi'ting ways, must be mine no longer." " Lucy, this parting may not be for always ; the time may come, and it seems to me will come, when some change will restore your child to your arms. Meanwhile all that I can do for her while I am left here, shall be done most gladly." " That will be a happy thought for me, dear sister ; let her come to you often, you will warn her of danger, reprove her faults, and keep undimmed the memory of her early home, and above all, her mother's faith ; it is too hard for me to break the intelligence of our separation to the dear child, and I trust it to you — you will find all the children in the nursery."

SPECULATION. Mb. Hawthorne, finding his persuasions useless, thanked his daughter for this promised visit from Willie, assuring her that during the period of separation the child should hold in reverence the faith of his mother, ai d the memory of his father ; and then he sought to soothe his suffering child, but his irritation against the offending husband betrayed itself m eveiy sentence. Mr. Hawthorne was himself an honest, upright man ; probably a temptation to swene from strict integrity had ne\ er crossed his path; he could not sympathise with one who had been tempted and fallen. He had no pity, was out of patience, incensed with Mr. Benton, and though glad to rescue him from imprisonment, he was not willing to leave him the only ties that could save him from utter ruin. He left his daughter tiemblingly alive to the disgrace of one who was dearer to her than life, and ■wondering if she could be wrong in yearning to mitigate the sufferings of that proud spirit. It was well for her that she had for many years known the only source of rest for the weary-hearted. It was a happy thing that in this time of her more than widowhood, she could look back to her youth, passed in the Ursuline Convent, Charlestown, ■where she had been placed for education, and where she had found what was far better than any learning —the priceless gift of faith. Her principles had been fixed and confirmed, in that fearful night when a Boston mob disturbed the peaceful inmates of that shelter, and her only sister a young and delicate girl, had been obliged to flee, like the others of that community, to a place of refuge, the fright and exposure bringing on the disease which caused her death. Nothing could afterward drive Lucy Hawthorne from her position as a Catholic; she could only look upon dear Edith as a martyr, and the gentle reproaches of her parents, and the scoffs of her early friends, were met alike by fixed determination. She hud loved Philip Benton in the days of her childhood, and though he was of no faith, she would not go back from her promise. He had respected the religion of his wife, and all his children had been reared in the Church of their mother. A long deep reverie after her father had left her, bringing quietness and peace to her soul, was broken by a gentle tap at the door, followed by, " May I come ?" Mrs. Benton arose, and a slight agitation was visible as the door slowly opened, but a look of relief, almost of joy followed, as she embraced the new-comer. "Sister Agnes, I am so grateful to jou for coming to me!" whispered Mrs. Benton, as the little woman in the black dress and cornet of the Sisters of Charity, seated herself by Mrs. Benton, and took both her hands in hers. " Yes, I ventured to come to you. I knew that your own sorrows would not so overwhelm you that you would forget our dear House, and the orphans, that miss you so much." And the small woman went on in a voice like the low murmur of a distant stream, giving Mra. Benton the sweet comforts of their mutual faith, and the last intelligence from the House of the Infant Jesus, of which she was Sister Superior, winning her thoughts for a time i'rom her own grief,