my remaining parent, an only child--an
idolized and favored one; and in my sixteenth year, claimed as the
bride of Samuel Wayland. Parental judgment frowned, and called it
folly. What could I do? Our faith had long been plighted, but filial
respect demanded that should be laid aside; yet what was I to find in
the future, that would ever repay for the love so vainly wasted. It
was all a blank. I nerved my heart for our last meeting--but the
strings were fibrous, and they broke.

"'I shall go to the West, and then you must forget me,' said I, when
we came to part.

"'Never, Mary, will you, can you be forgotten!'

"We parted there, forever. He is still living, a lone wanderer on the
earth; we have never had any communications; but there is a unity of
feeling, a oneness of spirit, that at times make me feel as if we were
scarcely separated. I enjoy a pleasure in thinking of his memory, a
confidence that would trust him any where in this wide world; and I
now believe that wherever he is, his heart is still true to me. As for
me, I have hurried through life like a 'storm-stricken bird,' no rest
from the busy scenes in which I mingled. Since then, there have been
proposals in which honor, wealth, and distinction were connected; and
once I had well nigh sold myself for interest, and to please my
father. We were promised, and I was congratulated on my happy
prospects; but, alas! alas, for me; the more memory reverted to the
past, my feelings revolted from the present. I sometimes used to stand
where I could see him pass in the street, and exclaim 'oh, heaven! can
I marry that man! can I stand before God's altar, and promise to love
and honor him, when I abhor his presence.' Time was hasting; one night
I went down into the study; father was sitting there.

"'Well, Mary,' said he, 'I suppose you will leave us soon.'

"That was enough for my pent-up feelings to break forth. 'I suppose
so,' said I, 'but, oh! father, I would rather see my grave open
to-morrow, than to think of uniting my destiny with that man. My very
soul detests him."

"Mary, sit down now, and write a letter to Mr. M----, that you cannot
keep your promise, and the reason why. Far would it be from me to
place in the hands of my only daughter, the cup of misery unmixed. My
judgment and your feelings differ.'

"It was late that night when I sealed the fated letter for M----; but
I retired and slept easy, there was a burden removed which had
well-nigh crushed