“A DREAM WHICH WAS NOT ALL A DREAM.”

As the missionary journeyed northward, his mind emerged from the gloom of the last few days. It naturally turned upon the young girl who was so soon to become his bride, and in this connection life began again to assume its rose-tints of old, and he was led to wonder how it was he had so given way to grief and sadness. In recalling the trials and disadvantages to which his young bride would be exposed at the mission, a bright thought occurred to him. An American housekeeper would be invaluable, and Miss Toothaker arose before him. She would no doubt prove an excellent manager, and she was so unprepossessing in every way, she would be unlikely to be appropriated by any widowed missionary. It has been seen already that for Philip St. Leger to think and to act were but quick, consecutive steps; it was so in this case. Upon his return to Troy he called upon Madame X and explained his wishes. Miss Toothaker was consulted, and accepted his proposition at once; she would be on missionary ground at all events. True, she was conditionally engaged to marry a Mr. Freeman Clarke, who was an itinerant preacher. She had insisted that he should become a missionary. He had consented to go as missionary to the Western frontiers. This did not meet Miss Toothaker’s views; foreign missionary or nothing. Mr. Clarke’s conscience did not send him to any Booriooboolah Gha, he said.

The engagement had been for some time in this state of contention, when the proposal of going to Turkey as “assistant” put an end to it.

Miss Arethusa retired to her room triumphantly, and exultingly wrote to her lover the facts in the case except that she left him to infer that she was going to Turkey, as she had always wished, a missionary’s wife.

Now that Mr. Freeman Clarke’s “blessing had taken its flight,” it all at once assumed that brightness of which the poet speaks. He would have argued and urged, even consented to have gone to the ends of the earth, but he saw from his lady’s letter it was too late. He solaced himself somewhat by replying to her dolorously, hoping that she might perceive his heart was broken and be sorry. He closed loftily by saying: “You advise me, my dear Arethusa allow me to call you thus for the last time to find a heart worthier and better. It was unkind in you to urge upon me an impossibility. None but Napoleon ever scorned the word impossible.”

Whether Mr. Freeman Clarke derived his inspiration for the itineracy from his lady-love is not for us to decide; this much is certain: from the day the “Atlantic” sailed for the Old World with Miss Toothaker on board his zeal flagged, and soon gave out altogether. His love for souls settled down upon one Annette Jones, the plain daughter of a plain farmer, whom he married, and lived happily enough with upon a small, rocky farm in the State of Vermont. In times of “revival,” he became an “exhorter,” and very fervent in prayer. Upon one occasion he soared to such a pitch as to cry out frantically: “O Lord, come down upon us now, come down now through the roof, and I will pay for the shingles."

There were two or three people present who thought such an address to the Supreme Being blasphemous and frightful, but the rest of the crowd cried, “Amen.”

In due time our missionaries found themselves at the house of Dr. Adams. The doctor was rejoiced to have back Minerva again, for he declared nothing had gone on rightly since her departure.

Although Philip was well pleased with his second wife, he forgot not his first. On the evening of his arrival he went out to visit her grave. As he stood there mournful and silent, a light step approached, and Emily’s hand clasped his own.

“Is it her grave?” she asked softly.

“Yes. You would not have me quite forget Della, would you?” he asked, doubtfully.

“O, no, but I would remember her with you. I would stand here by her grave with you, and offer up my prayers with yours that she may look down upon us in love and blessing. I would not seek to drive her memory from your heart. I do not consider that I have usurped her place. I would have a place alongside of hers if I am worthy, Philip.” She added the last words in a whisper, and doubtingly.

For the first time Philip perceived what a treasure he had won, and how worthy a successor to his first love. He looked down in her tearful eyes lovingly.

“Della in heaven and Emily on earth as one I love you,” he said, fervently.

On the following day Philip took his bride out to view the wonders of the city. They invited Miss Toothaker to accompany them, but were by no means regretful that she declined. They little dreamed what was going on in their absence. Suffice to say, when, after a few days of rest, they began to make ready for departure, their “assistant” displayed not her accustomed zeal and alacrity. This was accounted for on the last morning of their stay.

Without warning or preliminaries, immediately after prayers, in fact, upon rising from his knees, Dr. Adams walked up to the blushing Miss Toothaker, and taking her happy hand, led her to the far end of the room, placing himself and her in position.

“Before you leave, Mr. St. Leger, you will, if you please, do us the favor” (bowing low and smiling mellifluously) “you see how it is, sir, and what we wish of you.” The Doctor stammered, and was bashful, although such a veteran in the service.

The bride elect held her head very erect; the red spots in her cheeks glowed like double peonies; her two thin curls, done in oil for the occasion, hung straight and stiff like pendant icicles nigrescent; her sparkling black eyes looked apparently into vacuity, while they were really beholding the acme of all her hopes. She was thinking in that supreme moment of her life how very providential it was that she had thrown overboard Mr. Freeman Clarke. Whether he was picked up or whether the sharks devoured him, it occurred not to her to care. That she was about to become the fourth wife of the Rev. Dr. Adams, foreign missionary at the Capitol city of Turkey, was sufficient glory; she could have afforded to quench the hopes, and tread upon the hearts of a dozen such as that itinerant preacher. She had reserved herself for a grand calling, her life would be written in a book, and her name too, along with the Judsons, the Newells, the Deans, would inspire Sunday school scholars with zeal for missionary life unto the end of time.

But we are keeping them waiting.

Philip, always master of the situation, choked down his indignation and spoke the words, “for better for worse.” His prayer was brief and dry, without one bit of heart or spirit, but maybe it answered the purpose.

The Doctor, after the tying of the knot, did condescend to thank Philip for his kindness in bringing him over a wife. Philip replied with truthfulness that he merited no thanks.

And after all, once started again upon their inland journey, both Philip and his wife regretted not the absence of Arethusa. They had endured her company for sake of the advantage she was to prove to them in the future; they now fully realized how much she had been in their way.

Philip’s respect for the Doctor sensibly diminished. If he could endure Miss Arethusa for the the rest of his life, his taste was abominable. De gustibus non disputandum est; with this familiar reflection, Philip turned to a subject more agreeable.

Thus had Arethusa’s life-long dream of becoming a missionary’s wife proved neither illusive nor vain; and she had dropped the Toothaker.