264 I1 CHAPTER XXVIII. I AM YOURS, HEART AND SOUL. -Lille's "Elmerick." T would be necessary for Endura to go to the school-house as usual, She was under an engagement, and nothing could induce her to break faith with those who had been so kind to her in her adversity, or to shrink from duty or responsibility. She would fulfill her obligations. It would be but a short time before the term would end and she would be free. With what different feelings she entered the school-room, the next morning! Donald walked over with her, and then took occasion to ramble about, visiting one or two of the neighbors before returning to the house, which he reached in time for dinner, which was always on the table promptly at twelve o'clock. After dinner he hitched up his horses, and taking Mrs. Ivers, he drove around the country. She expressed a wish to visit her old home, where her father lived; where she first met her husband. As little incidents came to mind, pleasant or otherwise, tears flowed so freely that her handkerchief was in constant use, absorbing the grateful drops. When they returned, Endura was there waiting for them. Tea was As the drive had given Mrs. Ivers and Donald appetites, and as Enready to put on the table, and they were all in humor to enjoy it. dura had waited some time since getting the tea ready, she enjoyed it quite as much as they. happy as it is possible for a man to be. Donald remained two days longer, and not an hour but he was as Endura in the parlor. They were sitting upon the sofa. Donald put his arm around her and drew her gently toward him, while she inclined her head upon his breast, but said nothing. Donald said: "Has it then come to this? The great boy that your father gave bread and schooling to, as a compensation for services; the one he so kindly treated as a boy, and after as a guest; the one who took care of his little daughter, and toted her to school so many times; the one whom she said should be her brotherWhat is he to-day? Remember, Endura, you have not yet said you would be my wife." "And you have not yet asked me, Donald. Think you I could refuse you anything, and above all, refuse to be made happy myself? Have I not said you were all in all to me? What more can I say?" "Say! say you will be mine forever, and never tire of loving me, and I will bless you." "I am yours, heart and soul; I will promise to be your wife, and love you forever, as I do now; and, if my poor heart is capable, I will learn to love you better still, even as your merits deserve." Donald raised her lips to his and fervently kissed them. Then holding her from him while he looked into her tear-filled eyes, he reverently said, "God bless you, my darling, and may I never bring you a sorrow!" The day following Donald took his leave. He returned to Boston, and entered in earnest upon his profession. There were some important suits then pending which his partners were determined he should manage. Among the rest was a man to be tried for murder. The case excited a great deal of interest at the time. It will be remembered as the case where a man murdered his mistress through jealousy. The The case finally came to trial after several postponements. public interest in it had somewhat abated, but so bitter had been the feeling against the prisoner that it was found difficult to secure twelve men who were competent to serve as a jury. At last the panel was completed and the trial began. The proofs were so strong that it would have been absurd to have attempted a denial. What was to be done then? The attorneys had been retained to defend the prisoner, and it was their duty to do their best for him. The District Attorney opened the IT CHAPTER XXVIII. I AM YOURS, HEART AND SOUL. When gratitude o'erflows the swelling heart Take such acknowledgements as fragrant incense, -Lillo's "Elmerick." T would be necessary for Endura to go to the school-house as usual, She was under an engagement, and nothing could induce her to break faith with those who had been so kind to her in her adversity, or to shrink from duty or responsibility. She would fulfill her obligations. It would be but a short time before the term would end and she would be free. With what different feelings she entered the school-room, the next morning! Donald walked over with her, and then took occasion to ramble about, visiting one or two of the neighbors before returning to the house, which he reached in time for dinner, which was always on the table promptly at twelve o'clock. After dinner he hitched up his horses, and taking Mrs. Ivers, he drove around the country. She expressed a wish to visit her old home, where her father lived; where she first met her husband. As little incidents came to mind, pleasant or otherwise, tears flowed so freely that her handkerchief was in constant use, absorbing the grateful drops. Tea was When they returned, Endura was there waiting for them. ready to put on the table, and they were all in humor to enjoy it. As the drive had given Mrs. Ivers and Donald appetites, and as Endura had waited some time since getting the tea ready, she enjoyed it quite as much as they. Donald remained two days longer, and not an hour but he was as happy as it is possible for a man to be. The night before he was to return to Boston, he was alone with Endura in the parlor. They were sitting upon the sofa. Donald put his arm around her and drew her gently toward him, while she inclined her head upon his breast, but said nothing. Donald said: "Has it then come to this? The great boy that your father gave bread and schooling to, as a compensation for services; the one he so kindly treated as a boy, and after as a guest; the one who took care of his little daughter, and toted her to school so many times; the one whom she said should be her brotherWhat is he to-day? Remember, Endura, you have not yet said you would be my wife." "And you have not yet asked me, Donald. Think you I could refuse you anything, and above all, refuse to be made happy myself? Have I not said you were all in all to me? What more can I say?" "Say! say you will be mine forever, and never tire of loving me, and I will bless you." "I am yours, heart and soul; I will promise to be your wife, and love you forever, as I do now; and, if my poor heart is capable, I will learn to love you better still, even as your merits deserve." Donald raised her lips to his and fervently kissed them. Then holding her from him while he looked into her tear-filled eyes, he reverently said, "God bless you, my darling, and may I never bring you a sorrow!" The day following Donald took his leave. He returned to Boston, and entered in earnest upon his profession. There were some important suits then pending which his partners were determined he should manage. Among the rest was a man to be tried for murder. The case excited a great deal of interest at the time. It will be remembered as the case where a man murdered his mistress through jealousy. The case finally came to trial after several postponements. The public interest in it had somewhat abated, but so bitter had been the feeling against the prisoner that it was found difficult to secure twelve men who were competent to serve as a jury. At last the panel was completed and the trial began. The proofs were so strong that it would have been absurd to have attempted a denial. What was to be done then? The attorneys had been retained to defend the prisoner, and it was their duty to do their best for him. The District Attorney opened the case, stating the fact as he understood them. He said a foul murder had been committed, and that the prisoner was the perpetrator of the bloody deed there could be no doubt. He said he did not know what the defense would claim, but it appeared to him that if ever there was a case with but one side to it, this was the one. When Donald opened for the prisoner, he said that the District Attorney seemed to have tried the man before he entered the courtroom, which was about equal to the judge who condemned a man to be hung and tried him afterwards. "The honorable gentleman has told you he did not know what our line of defense would be. We could have informed him had he applied to us. He doubtless expects us to say that the prisoner was not there, or being there, we may be expected to attempt to prove that our client sat by while some ruffian came in and murdered his friend; or that, perhaps, we might attempt to show that the prisoner shot the woman in self defense, something as the wolf we read of in the fabledefending himself against the lamb that attempted to bite him. We do not propose to offer any such defense. That there has been a murder committed will admit of no doubt. And there could scarcely be a doubt but that the prisoner at the bar had perpetrated the bloody deed. The question that would naturally arise, then, would be the cause which led to the fearful tragedy. "We all remember the 'Moor of Venice' when he entered the bedchamber of the woman he loved better than his own life. There she lay upon her couch sleeping so sweetly, dreaming, it might have been, of the dusky Moor. He takes off his sword and almost relents. But he remembers the great wrong which she has done him. Fancied or real, it mattered not to one frenzied with jealousy as was Othello. His breast was aflame : 'It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars, It is the cause-' "The cause seemed to burn into his very soul! Think you not that the Moor was full of horror at the cruel action which he was about to perpetrate? But to him the cause justified it. That was the greatness of the provocation. When the deed was done how he |