My Philip.

THERE was the quick, sharp rap of the postman at the door. Our village had but one, and every body knew him, though, in the United States of America, "the letter-carrier," as he is called, has no distinctive mark or badge of office. Our postman always seemed to sympathise with his bundle of letters; and he knew us all so well, that he knew the contents or subjects of our letters almost as well as if he had been clairvoyant.

I was expecting my brother on that day; and, instead of him, there came a letter.

"Good news from William, I don't doubt," said the postman, as he gave me change for sixpence, taking twopence for his fee for delivering the letter. (We have not yet come to the English fashion of a free delivery of letters.)

"There generally is good news from brother," said I, smiling.

"William is a fine fellow," said he, tightening the string on his bundle of letters, and then he went on his way.

I remember thinking, what if he should lose one of those precious letters? What if he had lost mine? Why did he not carry them in a bag? How could he risk losing such precious things? But they all risk losing letters just the same way, for no letter-carrier in city or village ever uses any security for his parcel of letters but a string, while he is distributing them to their many owners.

I went in to read my news from brother, whatever it might be. My mother was in the large front-room, that looked toward the south, with my invalid father. He was taking his dinner, and I would not disturb him even with my treasure. So I stopped in the room, which was dining-room, sitting-room, and library, in our cottage. I opened my letter eagerly. I had not then learnt to wait patiently, and least of all where letters were concerned. I turned blind and faint, when I saw where the letter was dated.

"Medway Jail."

For some moments I in vain essayed to read. My head swam, and darkness veiled my eyes. At length I recovered, and read:

"MY DEAR SISTER,-You will be surprised when you see where my letter is dated. Since I last wrote you, I have had fair success in collecting the debts due to father; and I began to be encouraged, and to think I saw daylight for us. Three days ago I called on Mix, who keeps the tavern by the steamboat-landing. You will remember that his was the largest debt owing to father here. At first he said he could not pay me any thing. Then he said he supposed the night's receipts would be pretty good, as the night-train on the railroad would bring a good many

for the morning boat; and they must stay with him, for the other house was bad at best, and was being painted now. He said he would give me something on the debt in the morning. I had intended to be at home on the twenty-first, and it was hard to be detained; hut I stayed. In the morning he gave me one-hundred dollars, in five twenty-dollar notes. I made my calculations, and found that by giving up my stoppages at two other places, I could still be at home on the twenty-first. I was so glad of the prospect of so soon seeing you and mother, and our dear helpless father, that I trembled with joy. I trembled so much, when I was shaving, that I cut my chin. After I was again on my way, the blood kept oozing, and I stopped at an apothecary's to get a piece of court-plaster. It was near the station, where I was to take the cars, and a mile from Mix's tavern. I had bought the court-plaster, when I saw some surgical instruments lying on the counter. They pleased me very much; and as father had told me I should have a set for collecting, as soon as I had received a hundred dollars, I bought them.

"I had a sort of misgiving about the money I had got of Mix; I did not believe that it was bad, but I wished to be better satisfied than I was about it. I asked the price of the instruments. They were sold. There was a turn-key and a lancet, valued at three dollars, that I could have. I bought them, and tendered one of my twenty-dollar notes in payment. It was taken without question. I put the change and my instruments in my pocket, very glad to be set at rest about my money. I then went over to the station; the cars started in an hour I was told, and I sat down to wait as patiently as I could. Before half an hour had elapsed, I was arrested for passing counterfeit money. I was searched, and eighty dollars, of the same kind I had passed, were found upon me. At first I was horrified; but I sent immediately for Mix, scarcely doubting that he would say he had paid me the money. He refused to come, declaring that he had paid me no money; but saying, that I had paid him a bad twenty-dollar note for my night's lodging, supper, and breakfast, thus cheating him out of eighteen dollars good money. He said he would meet me at the right time and place; that I was in good hands now; and that he was busy.

"I am in prison, sister dear, and I don't know what will be my fate. All my money was taken from me by the officer who arrested me, and I can do nothing but let you know the facts. If father were not helpless, he would be able to help me; as it is, he can think; and some kind soul, I trust, will be able to carry out his suggestions. Keep up your courage, Clara dear; and tell father and mother that I am cheerful in my affliction. Write at once, and tell me what father says. "Your loving brother,

"WILLIAM BENTLEY."

I waited for my father to finish his dinner, and then I called mother and showed her the letter. Grieved and alarmed as she was, she endured all, till my father had slept his usual hour after his dinner.

Before I tell my readers what my father said to the letter, I must say something of our conditions. My father had been a merchant in Medway for many years. He was ruined by the credit-system that prevailed in our country. After losing almost every thing, he came to the village of Rosalba, where we now lived. He bought the cottage in which my mother was born. He paid one half its value, and depended on collecting the debts due to him in Medway and the vicinity to pay the other half. My brother wished to study to be a physician, and our uncle was considered the best medical man in Rosalba, and in our poverty he could very greatly assist us, by helping my brother in his education. We had lived two years in the cottage. The first year we rented, the second we bought it.

We had let the garden belonging to the cottage for half its produce, and I had taught school in summer; and thus with a very little money that my father had collected, we were supported. We lived in a hard, grudging economy, that no one knew of, not even my uncle. He was doing what he could for my brother; more than we would have been willing to accept from any other. The spectre always before us was the half payment for our cottage, which remained to be made. And we lost all, if we did not pay the remainder at a time specified, and which was drawing near. We looked to the success of my brother's efforts in this collecting tour, to secure us the shelter of our cottage home. Food we trusted would come. The ravens are fed; and we hoped, and looked forward to the time when my brother should be a successful physician, as our uncle was now.

What a terrible blow had fallen on our devoted heads! Our sole hope, our idolised William, was in a prison, accused of a crime, that, if not disproved, might consign him to a penitentiary for years, and blast his prospects for ever.

My mother and I were wild with grief. My father was quiet, but very sad. His disease, which was palsy of the lower limbs, caused by a fall from his horse, had left his mind clear as when he was in health. "We must do what we can," said he, "and be comforted that we know William is innocent. Now, Clara, you must go to Judge Bixby. I will write a note to him. He will come here, and consult with me, or he will advise me in some way. I have notes against Mix for three hundred dollars, beside the one William had with him, which was for two hundred and fifty. These notes are so many probabilities against him. We must have some person to go to Medway."

I wanted to say that Philip Melvin would go, but I dared not speak his name. He was a student, reading law with Judge Bixby. He had paid me the attentions of a lover till my parents forbade me to receive them. My parents were proud of ancestry-a pride that Americans disclaim, but which they nevertheless cherish. They were proud of former position, and prouder than all of the Puritan principles and practices of their progenitors.

He was an illegi

who had died of a

Now Philip Melvin was disgraced from his birth timate child. His mother was a simple country gir broken heart soon after his birth, and she had never revealed the name of Philip's father. She had died in the almshouse, and there her boy remained until he was seven years old. A lady visited the house when he had just reached his seventh birthday, and asked for Philip. She wept bitterly, it was said, over the beautiful child, and then she went to Judge Bixby, and from that time he became as one of the children of the good and wise judge. Philip proved worthy of all the care and education which were bestowed on him with liberal as well as paternal kindness ; but notwithstanding all, he was regarded as one who before his birth had "fallen into a pit of ink,

From which the wide sea could not wash him clean again."

I believe I loved Philip all the better because every body seemed to keep the bitter fact of his birth in their memory. He was nearly twentyone years old. I was seventeen. I had never disobeyed my parents, and I regarded my mother as a superior being. I was required to treat Philip as a stranger; and I could give him no explanation without wounding him more than I could ever bear to wound him. Poor fellow! I did not doubt that he regarded his birth as the mark of Cain upon him. How could I ever allude to the terrible fact? He saved me from my trouble by a manly frankness, which greatly increased my respect and love for him. One day I met him in a lonely road, in the neighbourhood of the village. He stopped me.

"Clara," said he, "I have a word to say to you."
The blood rushed to my face, a burning flood.
"You have said that you loved me," said he.
"I have," I whispered, hardly so as to be heard.
"Have you changed?" asked Philip.

"NO," said I aloud, and with energy.

Do you shun me of your own free will ?"

"No, Philip."

"Your parents require it of you, and-your brother also wishes you to shun me?"

"Yes," I said bravely, and yet with trembling.

"Because-" he could not utter the words.

He looked at me appealingly. I answered his thought.

"Yes, Philip; but I love you better for your great sorrow. I love you better for all the affliction Providence has permitted to come upon you."

"I thank you," said he, solemnly; "Clara, if we are faithful to our love, our time will come. We shall be happy together some day." I was silent.

"Do you not believe it ?" "I hope for it," I replied.

you

"Do not go yet," said he, as I was about to pass on; have promised me to be faithful to this love."

"I can be faithful only to my parents," said I, bursting into tears; "but I will never love any one but you, Philip, unless you forget me. Now let me go."

"Our time will come," said he; and I went on my way.

I never saw him again, to speak to him, till the day I went to Judge Bixby with my father's note. I met him on the way, and I stopped and told him our great sorrow. I could not do otherwise, for my heart turned to him with the hope of help.

"Go to the judge," said he; "I will be there by the time he has read and considered your father's note."

Judge Bixby read the note, and was very much disturbed by it.

"This is very bad," said he. "We must send some one at once to Medway. William must be released; Philip will go to him. There he is now," said he, as he saw him through the window. Philip came in presently.

"Melvin, will you go to Medway to-night ?" said the judge.

Certainly, if you wish it," said Philip.

Judge Bixby took his pen and wrote for some minutes; then he folded and addressed his letter without sealing it. Then he wrote a note to my father. He then turned to Philip, saying,

"You will go to Mr. Bentley, and get the notes which he has against Mix. Show this letter to him, which I have written to a legal friend of mine in Medway. If Mr. Bentley thinks of any thing more that he wishes me to write, you can return to me; otherwise, you had better go on to Medway to-night. I think you will do well to stay at Mix's tavern, and when you pay your bill offer him this note." He took a fifty-dollar note from his pocket, and handed it to Philip. "He has been so successful of late, he may give you one of those twenty-dollar notes in change for this, if you appear to be a stranger merely passing over the road. Rascals often fools."

are very

Philip and I went out together. At the door he said, "I will bid. you good-by, and hasten to your father. You can come at your leisure. You may be sure I shall do my best, and you know for whose sake I

do it."

His words comforted me in my great sorrow. I went home slowly, not wishing to arrive till Philip was gone. I met him at the door. He took my hand, pressed it in silence, and went away. My parents said little, and did not allude to the fact that Philip had gone to Medway.

I retired early, but spent the night in sleepless agony. I prayed for my poor brother in prison, and for all other prisoners. I felt sure that Philip would do William no good. I was glad to find in the morning that my father hoped that much good would result from his efforts. It was Tuesday evening when Philip left. He would arrive in Medway at two o'clock the next morning. By Friday we ought to hear from him.