THE MOTHER'S HEART. "Number thy lamps of love, and tell me now THERE is something holy and touching in the expression with which young people gaze upon their first-born child; the new and strong link in the beautiful chain of their domestic affection the tie which neither time nor misfortune, sickness, disgrace, nor even death itself, shall have power to sever. As they bend over the helpless babe, imagination rapidly and hopefully pictures forth his gradual progress through the different stages of childhood, youth and manhood, and weaves bright crowns of honor, fame and happiness, to deck his brow; and the mother looks forward to the time when her hours of pain and suffering, and the future cares that await her, shall all be amply recompensed by his love and welfare. Such were doubtless the thoughts and dreams of Leslie Ashton and his young wife, the wedded lovers of a year, the parents of a few brief hours, as they gazed, with speechless delight, on the fair boy just given to their love and their embraces, and each sought to trace in its tiny features the lineaments of the other. There was another, too, beside that couch,- a stately and beautiful woman, who bent with mingled smiles and tears over the young mother and her child, and blessed them with a full heart. This was Isabel Somers, the cousin of Mrs. Ashton, and the tried and true friend of her whole life. Isabel had been many years the wife of one who possessed every requisite to make her happy; wealth lavished its countless luxuries in her home, and on her person-love, the most devoted and untiring, was around her pathway, and her social and intellectual feelings alike met a ready response and sympathy - but one desire yet remained unsatisfied. Her spacious halls echoed not the sound of childhood's happy voice and merry laughter the deep fountains in her heart had never been stirred by the lisping tones or the soft embrace of one whose very life-blood was her own. "Would that I, too, were a mother!" was the earnest prayer of her spirit, as she looked on the quiet yet intense happiness of her friends; and then inwardly reproaching herself for her secret envy, she returned, languid and dispirited, to her home. She entered her luxurious dwelling, so different from the small and simple abode she had just quitted, and strove to forget, in her usual avocations, that scene of domestic felicity. But in vain she essayed to charm away those haunting thoughts by the spell of sweet sounds; the notes were discordant, for the soul of the musician was away. In vain her flowers blossomed and shed their fragrance around her, and her birds strove by their sweetest songs to win her attention; her ear listed, and her heart yearned, for a far dearer sound. "O, that I were but a mother!" she wildly exclaimed, as she dwelt more and more on the happiness of the Ashtons; "gladly would I exchange wealth, ease and every luxury, but to clasp to my heart a being to whom I had given birth, and to hear its first lisping accents murmur 'mother!'" Days, weeks and months went by, and daily and hourly was that wish repeated, till it became an earnest aspiration, a fervent prayer; and then Isabel began to experience a new feeling, a sort of jealous envy towards the young cousin whom she had ever loved so dearly, and by degrees she discontinued her visits there, for the sight of their deep, quiet enjoyment, made her very heart sick and weary. But, at length, her prayer was answered; and in the twelfth year of her wedded life, Isabel Somers embraced her first-born son. There were tears in her deep, dark eyes, as she imprinted the first kiss of maternal affection on its smooth, round cheek, but they were tears of heartfelt joy and thanksgiving. This was the era in Isabel's life. She had been happy as the only and idolized child of the most devoted parents-happy as the beautiful and gifted heiress, flattered and courted in the gay circles in which she moved-happy as the cherished wife of one who had been the playmate of her childhood, and the beloved companion of her youth but never, till now, had her felicity been perfect and entire. Time sped, and joyously it passed with the inmates of Somers House. The little Ernest grew in grace and beauty each day developed some new infantine charm, and Isabel was blest indeed. Home was now to her the centre of all enjoyment. What to her ear were the warblings of the sweetest vocalist, compared with the faintest lisp of that loved one? - what to her eye the most graceful movement of the accomplished danseuse, with the delight of watching its tiny feet, and training its feeble steps. Till Ernest attained his seventh year, he had enjoyed the most unbroken health, and his doting mother had often exulted in his bright eyes, rosy cheeks and agile movements; but, about that time, a contagious disorder broke out among children. Among the first whom it attacked was the eldest child of the Ashtons, who, unlike Ernest Somers, had always possessed a feeble constitution and delicate health; and, unable to resist the ravages of the disorder, he soon became its victim. From the time of his attack, Mrs. Somers had kept Ernest in strict seclusion; but her cares were unavailing, for scarcely had the grave closed above his little playfellow, when the young heir of Somers House was seized with the fever. Isabel was well-nigh distracted. Mrs. Ashton, ever 'self-sacrificing, roused herself from the indulgence of her own sorrow, to administer consolation to her friend, whose less evenly balanced mind and ungoverned feelings so much required it. "Do not talk to me of patience and submission," cried Isabel, in reply to her cousin's gentle pleadings; "I cannot bow my heart to this stroke, and say, 'Thy will be done!' You cannot feel as I do; - you have lost your child, 't is true, but you |