The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans.

homes which the devastating scourge had rendered desolate, leaving perhaps, one lonely sufferer, he advanced up the steps and gave the bell a gentle ring; a servant opened the door and ushered him into the drawing-room. Two ladies rose to greet him. One he recognized as the donor of his New Year's gift, and the other, could it be-his own brown-eyed Blanche? Guly felt a wild thrill of joy sweep through his heart, as Blanche, grown, it was true, more womanly than when he saw her last, came forward with her white hand extended to greet him. Oh, how annihilated did all the past, in that one wild moment, become! and as he bent his lips to that loved hand, and his brown hair swept forward over his pale temples, shutting out the bright scene around him, he seemed, for the instant, once more sitting at the little table in the humble cottage of the brodeuse, listening to the trembling voice of the blind grandfather, and threading needles for Blanche.

'This,' said the young girl, in her sweet musical voice, as Guly raised his head, 'is our mutual friend, Mrs. Belmont; your acquaintanceship, I believe, however, dates from long ago.'

Guly expressed his pleasure at the opportunity afforded of at last acknowledging his New Year's gift; and in a few moments they were seated together a happy trio, with the ease and cheerfulness of old friends talking over the events of the past. Mrs. Belmont explained, that she had met Blanche one day in the cemetery, kneeling by her grandfather's grave, just as she was on the eve of starting away on a long journey. That, struck by her resemblance to her mother, she had addressed her, and soon gleaned her whole history; that then she had adopted her to her childless heart as her own, and hurried her away with her, not having time to allow her to communicate the change to any of her friends; hence the long and hitherto unexplained mystery and silence which had so distressed and harassed Guly. They had returned but a few evenings before, and to-day, Blanche, happening to catch sight of her old acquaintance the dwarf, in the street, had seized that opportunity of communicating to him their arrival, and treating him, she hoped, to a joyful surprise.

It was late before Guly parted from his kind friends, and when he did, it was with a sigh of regret for his own fate, though he could not help rejoicing in his generous heart at Blanche's good fortune. As the pretty and innocent brodeuse, he had hoped to win and wear her as his own; but as the adopted daughter of one of the wealthiest ladies in the Crescent City, accomplished, rich, polished, and refined, this Blanche he dared not, could not hope to win. It was a height to which he, a poor salaried clerk, could never aspire.

With a heavy heart he wended his way through the star-lit streets, dreaming of the days of the blind grandsire, and the little work-table at which he used to thread needles for Blanche, and wondering if those times ever would return.

CHAPTER XLI.

'Hast thou loved in the good man's path to tread,
And bend o'er the sufferer's lowly bed?
Hast thou sought on the buoyant wings of prayer
A peace which the faithless may not share?
Do thy hopes all tend to the spirit land,
And the love of a bright unspotted band?
Are these thy treasures?'--

It was twilight, and Mr. Delancey was sitting at his high desk, with his eyes looking thoughtfully out from under his pale brow. Changes had come upon him, and it was evident that though the strong will was there, the fire of that stern pride that once glowed there was crushed out, and burned now only in a few smouldering embers. Cholera had taken his wife from his side, and he inhabited the great house on Apollo-street, a desolate and childless old man.

'Gulian,' said he, as the boy approached him with a bow, 'how is it that you always can succeed in preserving your amiability and politeness under all circumstances? I cannot understand.'

'Simply, sir,' replied Guly, with a smile, 'by remembering the one great law which God has given us to write upon our hearts, 'Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.''

'Humph!'

Guly stood in silence, looking up into the hard, pale face beside him.

'I have been thinking of you to-day, Gulian, something for your advancement. You have served me faithfully, and I wish to do something for you.'

'You have already done for me much, very much.'

'And you have never presumed upon it. I would do more. Do you think you could love me?'

'Love you, Mr. Delancey?'

'Even so; I am loveless and childless in my old age; be to me a son, I will strive to be to you a father.'

The merchant opened his arms, and Guly for the first time felt himself held to that proud heart with a cordial grasp of affection.

'Be to me a son,' continued Mr. Delancey, 'and all my wealth, all that I possess, shall be yours. I am old, and want some one to love me; some one to miss me when I am gone. Do you consent?'

Guly thought of Blanche, and his heart bounded; but the next moment his own noble self came back, and he answered promptly: 'I will gladly be to you, Mr. Delancey, the son you desire. I will love you, cherish you; do as a child should do toward a parent. But your wealth I cannot take. Let me see that distributed between those children who were disinherited by your wounded pride, and I shall be happy and contented in performing those duties which belong to you, from which you so cruelly cut yourself off.'

'Children? my children? I have none.'

'Where is Clinton's wife and his little son? Have they no claim upon your kindness?'

'It may be, it may be.'

'And Clinton himself, he has been pardoned out, and is wasting his young life to gather a pittance which you could so easily bestow.'

'Has he not disgraced and shamed me?'

'Pardon me, my friend; but was not the primal fault your own? Was he not driven to his desperate course by a father's pride and unkindness?'

'It may be, oh, it may be.'

'Write their names upon that scroll from whence they have been crossed, and restore them once more to their rights and happiness.'

'And leave you poor?'

'I am better accustomed to poverty, and can fight my way while I have strength and God's help.'

Mr. Delancey drew some papers from his desk and spread them before him.

'Since you so desire, my will shall be altered; I had hoped to make you happy in the possession of my wealth; if it will make you happier to see it in the possession of others, it shall be done. Young man, you have acted nobly.'

The merchant bent over his desk and wrote rapidly for some time. Lifting his head at last, he called Guly to affix his name, then folded and put them once more out of sight.

'There,' said he, 'it is done; if any error lay there, I have done all in my power to repair it now.'

'And you will receive your reward.'

The merchant said nothing, but sat with his head leaning on his hand. 'I cannot tell,' said he, 'what can have put such thoughts into my mind; perhaps, 'tis because I am growing old they come there; but I have been thinking of the other side of the river to-day, the River of Life.'

'My dear friend,' said Guly, turning suddenly and taking the merchant's hand respectfully in his; 'I am heartily glad that your thoughts have been turned seriously in this direction. It is a subject which ought to frequently intrude upon our minds, and I am inclined to think, that whether our passage across that river be pleasant or painful, lies much with ourselves. We should live to die, even as we would die to live.'