Oh, woman! woman! when will you sever the fetters which fashion,

wealth, and worldliness have bound about you, and prove yourselves

worthy the noble mission for which you were created? How much longer

will heartless, soulless wives, mothers, daughters, and sisters

waltz, moth-like, round the consuming flame of fashion; and, by

neglecting their duties and deserting their sphere, drive their

husbands, sons, and brothers out into the world, reckless and

depraved, with callous hearts, irrevocably laid on the altars of

Mammon? God help the women of America! Grant them the true womanly

instincts which, in the dawn of our republic, made "home" the Eden,

the acme of all human hopes and joys. Teach them that gilded

saloons, with their accompanying allurements of French latitude in

dress and dancing, and the sans-souci manners and style of

conversation (which, in less degenerate times, would have branded

with disgrace and infamy all who indulged it), teach them that all

these tend to the depths of social evil; and oh, lead them back to

the hearthstone, that holy post which too many, alas, have deserted!

Eugene Graham's love and tenderness were all bestowed on his

daughter, a beautiful child, not yet five years old; the sole

companion of the hours spent at home, she became his idol.

It was one sunny afternoon that he finished copying some papers,

necessary in a case to be defended the following day. The sunshine,

stealing through the shutters, fell on his lofty brow, pale from

continued study; his whole countenance bespoke a nature saddened,

vexed, but resolute, and, leaning forward, he touched the bell-rope.

As he did so, there came quick footsteps pattering along the hall;

the door was pushed open, and a little fairy form, with a head of

rich auburn ringlets, peeped in cautiously, while a sweet, childish

voice asked eagerly: "May I come now, father? Have you done writing? I won't make a

noise; indeed I won't!"

The gloom fled from his face, and he held out his arms to her,

saying: "I have done writing; you may come now, my darling."

She sprang into his lap and threw her little, snowy arms about his

neck, kissing him rapturously, and passing her fragile fingers

through his hair. She resembled him closely, having the same

classical contour and large, soft, dark eyes. He returned her

caresses with an expression of almost adoring fondness, stroking her

curls with a light, gentle touch. The evening was warm, and large

drops stood on his forehead. She noticed it, and, standing on his

knee, took the corner of her tiny embroidered apron and wiped away

the moisture, kissing the forehead as she did so. A servant looked

in at the door.




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