"And was it her"s," asked Julia, as she stooped down to inhale the rich fragrance of the beautiful flower.
"Yes, my child, it was a dear treasure to her. My Elise was a good child, she was my Idol, but my Heavenly Father has seen best to remove her from me. I only cared to live that I might be useful to her in giving her such instructions as might be a blessing to her. I almost adored her, but she is gone from me, and I am alone. I know she is happy, because she was good."
"And have you always lived here in our town," asked Julia.
"Oh, no! I am from Italy. When my child was but two years old, I left my native sh.o.r.es, and with my only relative, my father, followed my young husband, who is an American, to his own land. We settled in the State of Virginia, and a short time ago he died and left me with a charge to take care of our dear Elise. She had her father"s hair and complexion, and inherited his delicate const.i.tution. We were poor and I labored hard, but I cared not, if I could only make my child comfortable and happy.
She was not like me--her mind was full of thoughts of beauty--she would often talk of things with which I could not sympathize--the world seemed to her to be full of voices, and she would often say "How beautiful _heaven_ must be." Her nature was purer and gentler than mine, and I felt that she was a fit companion of the angels. But she is now gone to be with them, and I hope soon to meet her."
Julia bid the lady good bye and went towards her home. As she walked slowly along, she thought to herself, "Elise with the angels!" and she dwelt on the theme till her mother, seeing her rather different in her conduct, asked her the cause, when she replied, "Oh, mother! I want to dwell with the angels."
FLORA AND HER PORTRAIT.
"And was there never a portrait of your beautiful child," said Anne Jones to a lady whom she met at the grave where her child had been lain a few weeks.
"Oh, yes! but I may never have it," replied the woman, as she stood weeping at the grave.
Anna did not understand the mother"s tears, but in a few moments she became calm, and continued to explain.
"Not many weeks before my child"s illness, as we were walking together in the city, an artist observed my daughter and followed us to our humble home. He praised her countenance to me, and said her beauty was rare. In all his life he had never seen face to compare with it, nor an eye so full of soul--and begged to have me consent to his drawing her portrait. After many urgent entreaties, my dear child consented. For several mornings I went with Flora to the artist"s room, though I could ill afford the time, for our daily bread was to be earned. When he was finishing the picture, Flora went alone. One day she returned, and flinging into my lap her little green purse, she said:--"The picture does not need me any more, and I am very glad, for my head aches badly.
They say the portrait is very like me, mother."
"I resolved to go and see it the day following, but when the time came that I first looked upon it, my dear child began to fade in my arms, until she died. And here she is buried. Since then I go to the artist"s room to see her portrait, and there, full of life and beauty, she stands before me, and I have permission to see it every day.
"But I am about to leave this country for our native land. My aged father has long wished to return to his own country, and we shall soon sail with our friends for Italy. I must leave the dear child here. But if I can purchase the picture of the artist, I shall be happy. We are poor; but by the sale of some little articles, we have raised money enough to buy the picture, at the price which the artist demands for a similar picture.
"When I went to buy it, you know not how I felt, when the artist, notwithstanding all my pleadings, denied my request. His apology was, that he had taken it for some purpose of his own--some great exhibition of paintings--what, I could not fully comprehend. He would not sell it.
Day after day I have been to him, but in vain. And now the time of our departure will soon come, and duty demands that I must go with my father, and I must leave my dear Flora, and portrait too."
She then laid her face upon the grave and wept. Anna"s eyes were filled with tears, and for some moments she did not speak. At last she thought--"I know the artist." And then touching the mother, who was almost insensible, she said, "Madam, it may be that I can do something for you--describe to me the picture. I think I must have seen it at this same artist"s room."
The mother then gave the description, and after Anna had gathered from the mother all needful information, her name, and residence, and time of sailing, then giving her own address, and speaking to her words of consolation and hope, she arose and left the stranger at the grave of her child. The next story will tell you how the picture was obtained.
THE PORTRAIT OF FLORA PURCHASED.
Anna started for her home, and when she had arrived, she slowly ascended to her room, flung herself upon her couch, and buried her face in its cushions.
"Edgar," (for that was the artist"s name, and Anna knew him,) "Edgar is cold hearted." She did not meet the family at tea that evening, but when her mother came to inquire if she was ill, she related all the sad story of the childless mother, and asked what could be done. The next morning, Anna and her father went to see the artist. He was not in attendance, but one to whom they were well known brought forward the picture, at Anna"s request, and which she had before seen. While they were looking at it, the artist came in.
"Pardon me, sir," said Anna"s father, "for examining your beautiful picture during your absence, but my daughter has a very earnest desire to possess it. Is it for sale?"
Edgar replied, "I have painted this picture for the coming artist"s exhibition, and, therefore, I have made no design as to its disposal, but it would be an honor to me to have you and Miss Anna its purchasers.
I would wish, however, previously to its being given up, that it might be exhibited, according to my intention, at the rooms, which open on Monday next."
Mr. H. hesitated--the vessel, which was to carry away the sorrowing mother, was to sail in a little more than two weeks--they must have the picture at that time, if ever; and he said to the artist, "I am aware that this is a beautiful painting, and I will pay you your price, but I must be allowed to take it at the expiration of ten days, if at all."
Edgar reflected a few moments, and being well aware that, in the mansion of Mr. Hastings, his elegant picture would be seen by persons of the most accomplished manners, and of excellent taste, concluded to sell the picture. The bargain was made and Anna and her father departed, leaving the artist somewhat elated at the thought of having Mr. H. the owner of his picture.
That night Edgar dreamed that Flora, who had been buried a few weeks, and of whose image his picture was the exact resemblance, stood before him, pleading him to have pity on her lonely mother--he dreamed her hand clasped his, and he awoke trembling.
He raised himself upon his elbow, and pressed to his lips some flowers which were left on his table, and then rejoiced that the ocean would soon lie between him and the wearisome old woman who had so long annoyed him about the picture.
The Monday morning came, and with it the portrait of Flora, which had been admired at the exhibition rooms the previous week. A simple frame had been prepared for it, and for a few moments Anna gazed on the picture, and with a love for the buried stranger, looked for the last time into the deep dark eyes which beamed on the canvas.
The ship Viola, bound for the port of Naples, lay at the wharf, the pa.s.sengers were all hurrying on board, the flags were flying, and all wore the joyous aspect of a vessel outward bound. A carriage drawn by a pair of horses came down to the vessel. Mr. Hastings and Anna alighted, and were followed by a servant, who took the safely cased portrait in his arms, and accompanied them on board the ship. They soon met the mother of Flora, and Anna took the picture and presented it to her, and promised to care for the rose buds which bloomed at Flora"s grave. Mr. H received from the gallant captain a promise to take special charge of the Italian widow, and her aged father, and to care for the valued picture of Flora. Thanks and farewells closed the scene, when Anna, with her father, returned home. There she found a note from Edgar, the artist, requesting permission to call on Anna that evening. She wrote a reply, saying that a previous engagement would forbid her complying with his request, at the same time enclosing a check for $200, saying, "My father requests me to forward this check to you, in payment for the portrait of _Flora Revere_"
THE SAINT"S REST.
We"ve no abiding city here: This may distress the worldling"s mind, But should not cost the saint a tear, Who hopes a better rest to find.
We"ve no abiding city here; We seek a city out of sight, Zion its name: the Lord is there: It shines with everlasting light.
Hush, my soul, nor dare repine; The time my G.o.d appoints is best; While here to do his will be mine, And his to fix my time of rest.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
A GOOD MOTHER.
Mrs. Savage was the eldest sister of Matthew Henry. When she was a child she had a great many advantages for the improvement of her mind. When only seven years of age, she could translate the Hebrew language, and when ten years old, she would write out her father"s sermons. She possessed a very amiable disposition, and was very kind and benevolent to all who needed the comforts of life. She was a Christian, and when she became a mother she began the work of educating her children herself. She had a large family of nine children, and as she had treasured up in her memory many hymns and verses which she had learned when a child, she was able to teach the same to her children. She was so kind and affectionate that every body loved her. Her children took much pleasure in hearing their mother repeat to them the hymns and texts of Scripture which she had learned.
Some children are very careless, and indifferent to their parents"
advice; such ones will regret it in their riper years. But Mrs. Savage"s little boys and girls loved their mother, and were very obedient to her commands. When evening came, before they retired to bed she would call her little children around her (as you see in the picture,) and they would kneel down and say their evening prayer. A pleasant sight, indeed, to see our dear children remembering their Creator in the days of their youth. Mrs. S. was "useful, beloved, meek, humble, and charitable." She lived a happy, cheerful life; she was an ornament to her Christian profession, a "good mother." She died suddenly at the good old age of eighty-eight.
MOTHER"S LAST LESSON.
"Will you please teach me my verse, mamma, and then kiss me and bid me good night," said little Roger, as he opened the door and peeped into the chamber of his sick mother. "I am very sleepy, but no one has heard me say my prayers." Mrs. L. was very ill, and her friends believed her to be dying. She sat propped up with pillows and struggling for breath, her eyes were growing dim, and her strength was failing very fast. She was a widow, and little Roger was her only darling child. He had been in the habit of coming into her room every night, and sitting in her lap, or kneeling by her side, while she repeated some Scripture pa.s.sages to him or related a story of wise and good people. She always loved to hear Roger"s verse and prayer.
"Hush! hush!" said the lady who was watching beside the couch. "Your dear mamma is too ill to hear you to night." And as she said this, she came forward and laid her hand gently upon his arm as if she would lead him from the room. "I cannot go to bed to night," said the little boy, "without saying my prayers--I cannot."