CHAPTER X.

"FROM to and fro the world I come,
Where I have fared as exiles fare,
Mocked by the memories of home,
And homeless every where."

ALTHOUGH Mrs. Jepson had been much shocked at the disappearance of Esther Cram and her child, whom all their efforts could not trace, yet could she have known of their safety, her relief from an unpleasant responsibility concerning them must have been most grateful. But she was a conscientious woman, keenly alive to her own faults and violations of duty. Such she considered her negligence of those poor creatures, and many an hour of self-accusation and reproach had she passed on their account. Nor when the sunny smiles of spring brought back music to the forest, and beauty and verdure to the earth, did she cease to lament the thoughtlessness which had, perhaps, sent them to an untimely grave. Her pleasure, as well as astonishment, may therefore be conceived, when, at the close of a pleasant day, as she was quietly strolling through the woods, the fortune-teller suddenly stood before her.

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Her dress was soiled and torn, her hair disheveled, and on her face an expression of deep dejection, as from some terrible calamity. The latter instantly attracted Mrs. Jepson's attention, who quickly exclaimed: "Why, Mrs. Cram, where have you come from, and why are you so sad? Is your child

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"Dead, you would say," Esther Cram hastily added, as Mrs. Jepson hesitated; "no, there's no such mercy for her as that; she won't die, and I—I can't kill her.”

"Poor woman! you little realize what you say; but tell me where you have been through all the long winter, and where your child is; we have made great search for you."

"Ask me no questions; I have brought her back— now is the light of Esther Cram's life gone out in darkness." As she said this, the fortune-teller threw herself upon the ground, with a wail of agony and despair so terrible, Mrs. Jepson sank involuntarily and shuddering upon a rude seat near. For a moment she spoke not, judging it wisest to suffer the paroxysm to spend itself; then, in a soft and gentle tone, so soothing to the wounded spirit, she said:

"What can I do for you, my poor friend? Such violent grief must have some great cause-confide in me; I assure you I would gladly aid you."

The fortune-teller did not raise her head, and Mrs. Jepson continued:

"For the sorrowing heart there is much comfort, if we will only accept it; for the greatest sins there is for

giveness, if we only ask it; be comforted, then, my friend, for whatever the cause of your distress, there is One who knows it all, and is even now waiting to apply the healing balm to your wounded heart."

66 Do you call me 'friend?" Esther Cram asked, in a broken voice, raising herself to a sitting posture upon the earth; "and have you one spark of real kindness. towards such a poor, wretched creature?"

"Indeed I have!" Mrs. Jepson eagerly replied; "we are children of the same great Father, and though he has made us to differ in outward circumstances, he looks upon us with equal love. Why, then, should I not call you friend—nay, even offer you a sister's sympathy in your sorrow ?"

66 Are you mad! have you gone crazy, to talk thus to me? I have no friend-I am but a miserable outcast from God and man ;" and the woman sank her face upon her hands despondingly.

"Oh! say not so, Mrs. Cram! none are ever cast out who seek his face. Even the guiltiest may find pardon and peace if they but ask. So, if you can not confide in me, go with your burden and lay it at his feet, who will give you joy for sorrow, and light for the darkness which now fills your soul."

As Mrs. Jepson spoke, she arose to pursue her homebut Esther Cram sprang after her, and grasp

ward way,

ing her dress, cried:

"If you do not mock me, if you mean what you say, do not leave me now; for many wretched years have

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passed since the tones of kindness fell on my ear. You have touched the heart I thought hardened forever; do not leave it quivering in its agony. Oh! stay and tell me what a poor wretch like me can do."

"Gladly will I stay," Mrs. Jepson replied, re-seating herself, "if I can say aught to comfort you; but will you not tell me why you fled from us when we would befriend you, and where you have passed this long, cold winter ?"

"I will tell you all-yes, though to mortal eyes I had never thought to unvail my heart, something within whispers that I may trust you. You have known me, such as I am; a creature more allied to savage than civilized life-could you believe that this shriveled form was once symmetrical-this unsightly face, this grizzled hair, once called forth admiration for their beauty? or, that the witch,' whose cunning and ignorance have been alike bemoaned, was once the intelligent, refined maiden ?"

"I have always noticed," Mrs. Jepson responded, as the fortune-teller paused, "that your language indicated a well-educated mind—it has, I grant, been a matter of surprise to me; but do not let me interrupt you; you have aroused my curiosity most intensely. Go on; meanwhile, perhaps we had better walk towards homemy husband will be looking for me."

"No, no! 'tis only in these wild woods my heart can find utterance; they sheltered me when, like a hunted deer, I fled from those I loved-they witnessed the

bloom of my youth fade and shrink away, leaving this grim visage, in mockery of the past. Here, where I have looked with tearless eye upon the face of the dead, whose cold form my heart rivaled in its stony hardness -here let me tell the tale I had thought no mortal power could have drawn from me."

Esther Cram paused a few moments, rocking to and fro, as if to quell the wild tumult of thought within, while Mrs. Jepson gazed wonderingly at the strange being. Her imagination could scarcely clothe her with the beauty she just hinted once belonged to her—the utmost stretch of credulity would scarce give her the form of a blooming, lovable maiden.

But the kind-hearted woman would not heed these thoughts; she looked with pity upon the wretched object before her-hers should be the mission to lead that poor, sinful, degraded one into the heavenly light in which her own soul had bathed, and where alone the plague-spots of sin could be cleansed from her heart. With a silent prayer for aid, she gently laid her hand upon the shoulder of her still absorbed companion.

"Come," said she cheerfully, "the night is fast approaching, and my husband will be alarmed at my late absence-yet I can not leave you in your sorrow; tell me your story, that I may know how to soothe you; confide in me, as in a sister who yearns to lead you out your darkness."

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Esther Cram raised her face, still convulsively working with deep emotion.