never be long unhappy,' he replied, sternly,
'while she leans on Heaven and employs her whole time in doing good to
others. Misery is their lot alone, who, to gratify their own selfish
whims, will trample on the happiness even of their dearest friends.'

"I felt the reproof contained in these words, but was too proud to show
any emotion, even when Captain Hall gave me a description of the scene
at home, after my first departure became known. In her grief, Louisa
never forgot what was due to her father, and the cheerfulness which she
managed to maintain, notwithstanding her affliction, was all that
supported his broken spirit. Captain Hall then informed me that the old
man's health was failing, and his last letters from America had spoken
of his increased weakness.

"This information was a dreadful blow, but it did not make me a better
man. I tried to drown sorrow in intoxication, and almost obliterated the
remembrance of home, excepting when, in the silence of night, it would
come over me with irresistible power.

"When, after the lapse of three years, I once more approached my native
land, I was much more unworthy of being recognized by my friends than in
returning from my previous voyage. Still I proceeded directly to
Charlottesville, and stopped at the old mansion, which I had not seen
for six long years. Alas! it was tenanted by strangers. A new tombstone
was in the village grave-yard, and on one side of it the name of my
father, and the other bore my own. I asked the sexton, who was just
opening the church for an evening lecture, when Richard Colman died. He
replied very readily,--'O, about a year since. The old gentleman heard
of the loss of the vessel in which he sailed, and dropped away himself
very suddenly.'

"I dared not inquire after Louisa, for I felt that she must look upon me
as the destroyer of our father. I hastened to Boston, and had determined
on leaving the country for ever, when, by accident, I had tidings of my
sweet sister.

"After the melancholy information I obtained at Charlottesville, I had
become a temperance man, and took up my abode at the Sailor's Home.
While there, a poor man, who had been ill for months, and finally was
obliged to have his leg amputated, spoke often of the goodness of a
young lady who had been often to see him, and whom he considered almost
an angel. My curiosity was excited, and I inquired of the excellent
landlady the name of his friend, and was answered by a warm