When all danger for the life of Madam Fayerweather was over, and Judith ceased to have in her an immediate object of care and anxiety, her own health, no longer sustained by extraordinary stimulus to exertion, at length gave tokens of the injury it had itself received. She fell into a state of languor and debility, which threatened to end in consumption, had not her strength of mind, aided by a deep sense of religion, enabled her to exert all her energies to struggle against the foe and finally to subdue it—her own melancholy. Her religious duties, those which she owed to her parents and those to society, she had always faithfully discharged, and now finding them insufficient to engross her mind and prevent it from preying upon itself, she had recourse to the cultivation of her taste and the higher powers of her fine intellect. In this she was assisted by John, already an elegant scholar, and she became a highly accomplished woman, as well as the most beautiful in the province. Time passed on, and in its course saw Mr. Wendell presiding on the bench as chief-justice, his place as head of the bar filled by John Fayerweather. It is not surprising that years of devotion from the latter, combined with all the affection of his mother for her departed son, now resting on Judith, should at length have prevailed upon her to be united to them by stronger ties; after having refused many offers, and among the first, one from Mr. Lindsey, who had returned to America as soon as the intelligence of George’s death reached him. In Judith’s becoming the wife of John, there was no infidelity in either to the memory of his brother; it was cherished by both during life, and by each in the heart of the other. ----- [6] Nahant beach, the roar of which is distinctly heard in Salem on a still evening. * * * * * THE BABES OF EXILE. BY EFFIE FITZGERALD. “To roam o’er heaving waters bright, By heaven’s own moonbeam’s made To find our own a path of light, Where all beside is shade.” Fond babes of exile we here claim thine eye, To cheer thy sadness in this exile drear; We raise the veil of memory with a sigh, And seek our welcome in a silent tear. We fain would come with sunlight on our wings, For our sweet embassy is one of love; We hurl no stone from out our baby-slings, Save that commission come, too, from above. Souls sunk in ice-holes, or in gilded shine, May call us wild, fantastic, if they will; We know our birth-place was another clime— We come a different mission to fulfill. We dare the smoke-wreath on the crater’s verge; We look, undaunted, on the lava-flame; From the tornado’s whirl we safe emerge; To thee we come, in gentle childhood’s name!