had wound himself round the fond heart of his mother, and who seemed to love her presence, and cherish her affection, with a depth of feeling unusual in boys of his age.
One morning, late in August, as Colonel Pratt was about to proceed to the city, his wife observed him wandering over the house and grounds with an air of thoughtfulness amounting even to dejection. Astonished at this in one usually so cheerful-hearted, she joined him, and anxiously inquired the cause.
'I have suffered for several days from this same depression of spirits,' he answered, with a faint attempt to smile. 'Perhaps some wise sightseer might declare it a presentiment of coming evil, but it is no doubt the mere effect of a slight indisposition, occasioned by the extreme heat and application to business.'
'Stay at home with me to-day, Arthur!' said his wife, earnestly, reading beneath his attempts to treat the matter lightly a seriousness which he had striven to conceal.
'Nay, my wife,' he answered, 'it would but seem that I yielded to a superstitious dread. It will all be right to-morrow.'
Seeing the boat drawing near, the fond husband bade his wife an affectionate farewell, and hurried to the wharf. She saw him safely on board, and watched the steamer till out of sight.
In life she never saw that husband more. The boat in which he returned was the ill-fated 'Empire,' which was sunk near Newburgh, and he was among those who perished. The corpse of Colonel Pratt was not discovered until two days had elapsed, and immediate burial was necessary upon the arrival of the body at that dear home whence he had so lately departed. This blow was so severe to his wife, that for several weeks her reason deserted her, in an attack of long-continued illness. She recovered, only to learn, that extensive speculations, whose prospect of certain success had induced Colonel Pratt to invest very nearly the whole of his fortune, had proved an utter failure, and that she and her children were destitute.
Here was something which called forth all her energies, and for her children's sake she nerved herself to action. Their beautiful home, the scene of so much happiness, passed into strangers' hands. Horses and carriage, and even Mrs. Pratt's jewelry, all went in the general ruin. Naught was reserved save enough to purchase a diminutive cottage not many miles from the scene of her former prosperity, and thither she departed, taking with her Arthur and Gulian, who had never before tasted the bitter dregs of poverty or sorrow.
As usual, in such cases, the many
About this time, a Southern paper fell into their hands, containing an advertisement, by a merchant in New- Orleans, for two young clerks, to fill vacancies recently made in his number of assistants. After due consideration, it was determined that they might fill those places, and the merchant was accordingly written to. An answer was immediately returned, desiring that they should come on as soon as possible, stating that it was not his custom to engage Northern clerks, but that it was a season of the year when it was difficult to procure any one, and for this reason he had decided in their favor. He further stated that he should expect them to remain with him winter and summer, as he could not go to the inconvenience of engaging clerks from such a distance, and then have them away three or four months in a year.
On the whole, Mrs. Pratt thought the letter a very stern and disagreeable one in tone, and shuddered as she pictured to herself the character of the writer. What would her delicate and gentle Guly do, in daily contact with such a cold, blunt-lipped man. Still, there was nothing she could devise that would be well for them, and New- Orleans, at that time, was considered an El Dorado, where industry and perseverance soon brought the fickle goddess to bestow her glittering stores. It was a long way to send them from her side, but she experienced a pride which prevented her from applying for situations for them nearer home. Thus, it was decided they should go. In the bright anticipations of future fortune and happiness, which immediately filled his busy brain, in the preparation for departure, and the prospect of his approaching journey, Arthur in a measure forgot the calamity which had over- taken them, and the attendant painful separation from his sole remaining parent. He dwelt enthusiastically upon the fortune he was confident he should soon win. He told how frequent his letters home would be, and hinted that, as soon as practicable, they would contain something more than mere words. His voice, when dwelling upon this subject, was always loud and confident, and even in the midst of all their troubles he sometimes laughed as merrily as of old, when picturing their restored wealth and renewed happiness.
Not so Guly. He hovered round his mother like some gentle spirit; saying but little, yet evincing in every glance of his expressive blue eyes, and in every noiseless footfall, the deep sorrow which lay in the recesses of his young heart. When he spoke it was in accents of tenderness and sympathy for his mother; and though he never talked as Arthur did of the approaching journey, and its results, there was an expression of firmness and determination in his thoughtful face, which more than once forced upon the mother's heart the conviction, that in that distant land, this frail being, after all, might prove the stronger of the two. Daily she warned them of the temptations and snares that would beset their path, and taught them to zealously shun such, as they would a viper in their way. They listened and promised; and when the expected day of departure arrived, bade her adieu in the midst of her tears, and prayers, and blessings. Thus was the widow left utterly alone; yet in her faith she felt not forsaken, knowing that the Father of the fatherless was with her in her woe.
CHAPTER III.
With the first ray of the morning light, Gulian was awake. Without disturbing his brother, he rose, dressed himself, and took a survey of his chamber by daylight. It was a large, gloomy-looking room, unceiled and unpainted, and the rough beams and rafters looked like the ponderous ribs of some antediluvian monster, which might crumble in at any time, and bury all beneath them. The windows were large, but dingy and begrimed with the unmoved dust of years; and spiders' webs hung in profuse festoons from the dirty sashes. A quantity of old barrels, boards, wine casks, and other lumber, were carelessly thrown in one corner, and the door which opened upon the staircase was covered with big-lettered advertisements, in such diversified type that it seemed as if the old door was 'making faces' all the time, to improve its Punch and Judyish appearance. The windows looked down into the courtyards of adjoining dwellings, which were built up so high that no view was afforded beyond. As Guly looked down now, he saw the servants hurrying about with their turbaned heads and ebony faces, busied with preparations for the morning meal; laughing and joking as they passed one another, apparently as happy in these narrow gloomy courts as though they were the possessors of the proud mansions adjoining.
Such was the view from two of the windows of the room. There was another one covered partially by a tattered and dusty painted shade, at the southern extremity of the apartment, but Guly did not approach it, not caring to look down upon what he thought must be a third edition of kitchen scenery.
Opposite the bed was a pile of empty dry goods boxes; and one or two pieces of furniture of the same description were placed about the room, which, with the addition of one store stool, minus a bottom, served for seats.
The bedstead was of common stained wood, furnished with a tester and flimsy mosquito bar, through the grim and smoky folds of which were visible sheets of unbleached factory muslin, an emaciated mattress, and a pair of lean pillows, which seemed quite lost in the much too large cases which covered them. The boy sighed as he took in all the dinginess and gloom, and his heart throbbed yearningly for the pleasant room which, even in adversity, had been his at home, cheered and enlivened so often, too, by the presence of his tender mother.
'It isn't time to get up yet, is it, Gulian?' said Arthur, half-rousing himself, then closing his weary lids again. 'The sun isn't up yet, is it?'
'The sun never gets into this room, Arthur; we can only know when it's up by the increased light.'
'I was dreaming of home; oh! such a pleasant dream! I must sleep a little longer,' murmured Arthur again, in the lingering tones of one but half-awake.
'Not this morning, brother. Come, we must up, and be doing. I hear them opening the store below; we shouldn't be late the first morning, you know, dear Arthur. It is too late to sleep.'
Alas! that this first bright dream of home, in that old gloomy room, should ever have been broken! Alas! that the first sweet slumber, on that rude couch, should have had its awaking! Alas! for the beauty of that boyish face,
