The whole scene of metropolitan life, in its most stirring aspect, was entirely new and highly interesting to our rustic beauty.  Amusements of every description were rife.  The theatres, exhibition halls, saloons and concert rooms held out their most attractive temptations, and night after night were crowded with the gay votaries of fashion and of pleasure.  While the churches, and lyceums, and lecture-rooms had greater charms for the more seriously inclined.  The old and the young, the grave and the gay, found no lack of occupation, amusement and instruction to suit their several tastes or varying moods.  The second week of their visit, the marriage of Alice Morris and Oliver Murray came off, Miriam serving as bridesmaid, Dr. Douglass as groomsman, and Mr. Willcoxen as officiating minister.

But it is not with these marriage festivities that we have to do, but with the scenes that immediately succeed them.

From the time of Mr. Willcoxen’s arrival in the city, he had not ceased to exercise his sacred calling.  His fame had long before preceded him to the capital, and since his coming he had been frequently solicited to preach and to lecture.

Not from love of notoriety—­not from any such ill-placed, vain glory, but from the wish to relieve some overtasked brother of the heat and burden of at least one day; and possibly by presenting truth in a newer and stronger light to do some good, did Thurston Willcoxen, Sabbath after Sabbath, and evening after evening, preach in the churches or lecture before the lyceum.  Crowds flocked to hear him, the press spoke highly of his talents and his eloquence, the people warmly echoed the opinion, and Mr. Willcoxen, against his inclination, became the clerical celebrity of the day.

But from all this unsought world-worship he turned away a weary, sickened, sorrowing man.

There was but one thing in all “the world outside” that strongly interested him—­it was a “still small voice,” a low-toned, sweet music, keeping near the dear mother earth and her humble children, yet echoed and re-echoed from sphere to sphere—­it was the name of a lady, young, lovely, accomplished and wealthy, who devoted herself, her time, her talents and her fortune, to the cause of suffering humanity.

This young lady, whose beauty, goodness, wisdom, eloquence and powers of persuasion were rumored to be almost miraculous, had founded schools and asylums, and had collected by subscription a large amount of money, with which she was coming to America, to select and purchase a tract of land to settle a colony of the London poor.  This angel girl’s name and fame was a low, sweet echo, as I said before—­never noisy, never rising high—­keeping near the ground.  People spoke of her in quiet places, and dropped their voices to gentle tones in mentioning her and her works.  Such was the spell it exercised over them.  This lady’s name possessed the strangest fascination for Thurston Willcoxen; he read eagerly whatever was written of her; he listened with interest to whatever was spoken of her.  Her name! it was that of his loved and lost Marian!—­that in itself was a spell, but that was not the greatest charm—­her character resembled that of his Marian!