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THE WIFE'S COUNSEL.

BY ELLEN ASHTON.

"WHY are you so gloomy, Edmund ?" said a happy wife and mother to her husband, as they sat together one evening after the tea things had been removed, "Why are you so gloomy ? I have noticed it growing on you for some time past. Tell me," she continued, looking fondly up into his face, " for if trouble causes it, I can share, even if I cannot alleviate, your sorrow."

The husband looked at her a minute with changing emotions of countenance, and replied.

"I will tell you, Ellen, although I am almost ashamed to do so. I have been speculating again, and-and I fear it will turn out to my loss."

There might have been seen, for a moment, by a close observer, an expression of reproach on the countenance of the wife ; but the look was involuntary ; and perhaps unperceived by the husband, for it faded like a sun cloud, almost as quickly as it came. She replied with a smile.

"And why should that make you gloomy ? Are we not still comfortable ? Shall the loss of a few dollars make you unhappy ?"

" Alas ! it is not the loss of a few dollars," said the husband deeply affected, " but of thousands, which I deplore. And all this might have been prevented if I had only taken your advice. Again and again have you besought me not to engage in these gambling roads to riches, but I have blindly," and he spoke with the deepest agitation, " gone on, disregarding all you have said, until now I have ruined you and our sweet babe. God forgive me for it," he said, bursting into tears, "but I have, by my folly, reduced you to poverty. Would that I had never been born !"

The wife's cheek paled, for she had not dreamed that her husband's fortune had been impaired to such an extent, but although she saw herself and her darling infant reduced to beggary, no words of condemnation rose to her lips, not even a look of reproach was turned on her husband. Even had she wished to censure him as the cause of their ruin she could not have done so, when the lover of her youth was sobbing before her. It is not often that a man weeps, and deep indeed must be that agony which can wring tears from his eyes. Ellen gazed on her husband, and as she saw the violence of his emotions she felt that he was sufficiently punished, that the torture of his spirit was teaching him a lesson, by which she hoped he would profit. We said she felt this, but we mistake-it was not until afterward that she thought on the subject ; for at the sight of her husband's tears, at the sound of his penitential words every other emotion but that of sympathy was chased from her bosom and throwing her arms around his neck, she soothed him by kind words and bright hopes for the future. VOL. I.- 12

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" And what if we are beggars, dear Edmund ?" she said, "have we not our little Henry still left to us ?-are we not yet all in all to each other ? Our heavenly father will not suffer us to want, and we can easily part with these luxuries that surround us. Believe me, we shall still be happy-perhaps happier than we have been here." " No- no," said the husband with emotion, " I can never forgive myself for what I have done. For a week I have known this dreadful truth, and yet dared not tell you. But you are an angel. Oh ! why did you not reproach me ? I could have borne that better than this meck, this forgiving, this more than mortal kindness. God forgive me for having made you a beggar !" "Oh ! talk not thus wildly, dear, dear Edmund," said the wife, " for you cut me to the heart. Let what has past be forgotten . Willingly, aye ! gladly will I surrender these useless luxuries if it will only restore your peace of mind. We will-I know we will be happier in poverty than we have been in opulence, for the cares that have constantly harrassed you will then trouble you no longer. Sweet little Henry," she continued, turning to the infant in its cradle, " see he has awoke and smiles on you. Let him not see a cloud of sorrow on his father's brow." By such words did that sweet wife soothe her husband's troubled mind, and endeavor to reconcile him to the fate that was now inevitable. Ellen Massey had been the only daughter of a widow. Her mother had brought her up with unusual care, early instilling into her mind correct principles, and teaching her that in religion alone would she find a guide in prosperity and a comforter in adversity. Ellen grew up accordingly with devout but unpretending piety. At the age of eighteen she saw her mother descend to the tomb, leaving her an orphan and almost friendless. Before her death Mrs. Massey had been induced, by the advice of some friends, to invest her little fortune in a stock company that promised enormous profits, and, at the time Ellen was left an orphan, the stock of this company had risen to such a height as to command double its original value. Mrs. Massey died, therefore, with the belief that her daughter would have a fortune sufficiently large to afford not only the elegancies but the luxuries of life. Alas ! for the delusions of the times. A crisis came, and the company was suddenly reduced to insolvency. Ellen now became penniless. But, in this strait, her religion supported her, and instead of sitting down in useless repinings, she determined to earn her livelihood by becoming a governess. She soon found a situation, and here met Edmund Warren, a young gentleman of fortune and worth. Her modest demeanor attracted his notice, and he sought the acquaintance of the retiring governess. His friends laughed at him for his intimacy with one whom they