LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 87, 10 September 1874, Page 3

LITERATURE.

WEDDED IN DEATH. A TALE OF THE LATE AMERICAN WAR. [From licit/raria .] Concluded. In course of lime, as'soon ns her liealtli and strength were equal to the task. Ellen M‘Dermoid, or, ns I should say, Ellon Burke, returned to her self-imposed duties, and enrolled herself in the corps of the Bisters of Mercy—that noble band of Southern ladies who sent husbands, brothers, lovers, and sons to the battle-field with their fervent prayers and blessings, and then vobno.-rily gave up the luxuries of life, the comforts of home, and many am on" them, their most valued and cherished treasures, to devote their time and their means to the alleviation of the sufferings of the sick and wounded soldiers of the Southern army, to minister to their bodily wants, to read to them, to work

them, and to pray by the side of their cots. Nor did these Sisters of Mercy confine their attention solely to the sick and wounded soldiers of the South. They strove to banish feelings of enmity from their bosoms when they entered upon their holy avocations. Tne foes of their country, prisoners of war, stricken down by sorrow and suffering, were in their eyes no longer foes, but suffering members of the same groat human family ; and many a dying Federal soldier, far from home and friends, has closed Ids eyes in death, listening to the last to the gentle voiee that pleaded to heaven for pardon for the poor dying sinner, and for his eternal happiness ; and has feebly murmured a blessing with his last breath on those fair ministers of peace and hope and comfort, who have withdnwn half the sting from the pangs of death. Several months elapsed before I was enabled to leave Richmond, and during that period I frequently visited sick and wounded friends in the hospital. And among the nurses there was one fair girl who ever attracted t he notice and admiration of strangers by the beauty of her features—upon which a shade of tender melancholy habitually rested —the grace of her form, and the gentle assiduity of her attentions to the sick and suffering. The marked contrast between her mourning garb and her bright auburn tresses and deep blue eyes rendered her remarkable even amongst tire host of equally fair and youthful, but generally dark-haired, black-eyed daughters of the Houtfa. That fair girl was Ellen Burke ; and many a time have I seen a sick or wounded soldier’s eyes light up with pleasure, while his lips murmured a blessing upon her, as with a gentle smile, or a word of hope and encouragement, she passed by his cot on h r errands of mercy. Around the humble grave of James Burke, in the little churchyard on the outskirts of the city, the grass grows fresh and green, with constant watering and care ; and during the next summer months after his death, flowers were kept in continuous bloom upon the fresh green sod. That fresh green grass and those blooming flowers owed their freshness and beauty to the unwearying care of- Ellen Burke. ACROSS THE SANDS. (From Chambers Journal .) In two Chapters. Chapter I. ‘ It won’t rain; and if it does, it will not hurt me, Aline, dear! Come; I have just time left to walk the three miles; and I must not let my pupils fancy that their musicmistress has forgotten them.’ The speaker was a girl of twenty-one, or possibly a year older, with bright dark eyes, hair of a glossy brown, and a rich complexion. She had a pleasant smile withal, though there was something thoughtful, and at times sad, in the expression of the handsome face. There she stood, before the little chimney-glass in the one sitting-room of a tiny cottage, adjusting her simple hat upon the well-shaped head, that became it so well, while on the table near her lay a dark raincloak. It was a lowering day in the late summer; the wind blew in quick, uncertain gusts, that streaked the dull, leaden surface of the sea, here and there, with snow-white belts of foam; and the clouds drifted heavily by. on their way inland. The air was oppressily warm; and the hum of the bees, as they stirred among the blossoms of the flowering creeper that hung across the open window, seemed louder and more sullen than usual f such was the stillness that prevailed. ‘ I never see you set off, dear, to your daily drudgery in that weary Stourchcster,’ said Aline impetuously, as she moved uneasily on the couch whereon she lay, propped with pillows, ‘ without reproaching mysMf that you must walk so far, and work so hard, and all for useless, tiresome me ! lam a burden aud a hindrance to you, dear M irgaret, and nothing else, aud it would be well if I were out of the world, in which 1 have been only a sorrow and a trouble to those that loved me.’

There was something pitiful in the contrast between the health and beauty of the elder sister, and the frail form and wan, wistful face of the younger, as she lay among her pillows, Aline’s long fair hair, and the delicate transparency of her cheek, pale as marble, made up all her claims to good looks. She was barely eighteen ; but her thin hands and face, and the attitude in which the slender form was stretched upon the sofa, told their own tale of spinal curvature, that had made her a helpless invalid from childhood, and of the bad health that commonly accompanies such physical affliction. Margaret came quietly round to the sofa, folded the wasted form tenderly in her arms, and kissed the pallid cheek as lovingly as if the sufferer had been a child indeed. _ ‘ Never a sorrow to me, darling,’ she said ; < never a trouble to me. You little know, Aline, how often the remembrance of the dear patient face waiting at home for my return, has kept my courage and my spirit from giving way altogether. It is good, believe me, to have some one to care for in this world beside one’s selfish self. And, after all, we have much now for which to be thankful. We have found friends here, in Ibis strange place, and I could have more pupils to instruct, if only I had the time lo give more lessons. What T earn is enough to maintain us in comfort. These are not like the dark days, immediately after poor papa died, when he had to leave the dear old parsonage, and did not know where to look for a home. And now’

‘ And now, you are all to me, Margaret—parents, and sister, and friend, for I never had a friend but you; and, indeed, how should I, a crippled thing with a winchancy temper at best, as our old Scotch nurse used to say;’ and by this time, the sick girl was smiling through her tears —tears that any emotion caused to gather so quickly in her eager blue eyes. 1 But it is not on my own account^ believe me, that I am cross and vexed. cannot bear to think that you shouldl days a week to teach in the house', 01 1 ; odious purse-proud people at HoiiicicS ° don’t P care, Margaret. V* ™ch you may protest they arc or at 3 least pin, sc y t a p to spend your hanbearned%o-™gns 0,1 idl °- useless Aline _a ..each mt". a bag of hot-house grapes there - * new books and new prints from r „iidon; flowers in ray bedroom, and a new cage, for my stupid old canary—while you grudge yourself a dross or a pair of hoots. Don’t deny it; you know you do. And then, Frank Darrell ’ < The less we say of poor Frank, the better.’ returned Margaret hastily, as her colour faded, and the bright light in her honest eyes grew dim. ‘ He may have forgotten us, or he may be —— We have not

heard of him for much more than a year,’ she added, turning away her face towards the window.

‘ My fault, from first to last,’ cried Aline, in the old impetuous way. 4 But for me,’ you would have been his wife ; but for me, you would have married him—l know you would——when he pressed you so hard, just before he sailed on that last voyage. But papa’s health was failing, and we were so soon to be thrown on the world, and [you did not care to encumber your husband with a helpless, peevish pensioner like Aline Gray, and so , Margaret, you are very brave; but do you think I do not know how much you have grieved for his loss, whether he be dead, or only dead to you !’ There was something beautiful in the patient affection with which Margaret soothed and fondled this poor restless sufferer into a quieter frame of mind, not arguing with her, hut contenting herself with dropping a word here and there, that fell like oil upon the waters. Those who had taken the trouble—they were few indeed—to study Aline’s disposition, could see in her the elements of a noblo nature, somewhat warped by the strange and painful conditions of her life. To superficial observers, she had never seemed other than a spoiled child, with a mind as crooked as her body, and more ready to resent an injury, real or supposed, than to acknowledge a kindness. And yet it was Aline’s deep sense of the gratitude she owed to her sister, that prompted her to petulance and almost revolt against the circumstances of her life.

The Stourchcster people, and more particularly the few neighbours who dwelt in the outlying hamlet of Wood End, three miles from the town, where Aline and her sister lived, truly declared that Margaret was as a mother to the young invalid. To Margaret herself this appeared the most natural, matter-of-course thing in the world. From her own mother, on her death-bed, she had received the charge of sickly Aline as a sacred trust. 4 ln leaving her to you, Margaret,’ Mrs Grey had said, 4 I know that I give her into stronger hands than mine.’ And indeed it was so, for Mrs Gray’s wellmeaning feebleness of purpose was ill fitted to cope with the storms of life. The vicar, himself a dreamy and unpractical man of letters, had survived his wife but a year; and when he died, and the girls, who had no near relative able and willing to give them shelter and protection, were left alone, it had devolved upon Margaret to provide for both. Bhe had answered to the call, nobly. She was an excellent musician, and to her real talent and practised skill she added the power of making children love her, and learn all the more quickly because they wished to please her. It had not been without trouble, however, that she had fought 1 er way into the position of the best-con-sidered and most-sought-for music-mistress in the town near which she had settled. There were those who declared Miss Gray 1 too pretty for a governess;’ and others who could not readily forgive her the quiet ladylike manner the dignity of which impressed them, unassuming as she was. But she had made her way at length; and by hard work, was enabled to keep up the little cottage at Wood End (she lived at Wood End partly for economy, Stourchester rents being high, and partly because Aline, who loved flowers and trees, seemed to wither when cooped up in a town), and to provide for her sickly sister the many little luxuries to which from infancy she had been accustomed. Uncomplaining and cheerful, she went brightly and busily through each day’s routine of duty; and only Aline’s watchful eyes detected that the young sailor, Frank Darrell, was unforgotten. To he continued.