An Outcast | Page 4

hair fall down her shoulders to her waist. Youth, beauty,
and innocence are written in every feature of that fair face, over which
a pensive smile now plays, then deepens into sadness. Here she has sat
for several minutes, her head resting lightly on her right hand, and her
broad sun-hat in her left, looking intently at a newly sodded grave with
a plain white slab, on which is inscribed, in black letters--"Poor
Miranda." This is all that betrays the sleeper beneath.
"And this is where they have laid her," she says, with a sigh. "Poor
Miranda! like me, she was lost to this world. The world only knew the
worst of her." And the tears that steal from her eyes tell the tale of her
affection. "Heaven will deal kindly with the outcast, for Heaven only
knows her sorrows." She rises quickly from her seat, casts a glance
over the avenue, then pats the sods with her hands, and strews cypress
branches and flowers over the grave, saying, "This is the last of poor
Miranda. Some good friend has laid her here, and we are separated
forever. It was misfortune that made us friends." She turns slowly from
the spot, and walks down the avenue towards the great gate leading to
the city. A shadow crosses her path; she hesitates, and looks with an air
of surprise as the tall figure of a man advances hastily, saying,
"Welcome, sweet Anna--welcome home."
He extends his gloved hand, which she receives with evident reluctance.
"Pray what brought you here, Mr. Snivel?" she inquires, fixing her eyes
on him, suspiciously.
"If you would not take it impertinent, I might ask you the same
question. No, I will not. It was your charms, sweetest Anna. Love can
draw me--I am a worshipper at its fountain. And as for law,--you know
I live by that."
Mr. Snivel is what may be called a light comedy lawyer; ready to enter
the service of any friend in need. He is commonly called "Snivel the
lawyer," although the profession regard him with suspicion, and society

keeps him on its out skirts. He is, in a word, a sportsman of small game,
ready to bring down any sort of bird that chances within reach of his
fowling-piece. He is tall of figure and slender, a pink of fashion in dress,
wears large diamonds, an eye-glass, and makes the most of a light,
promising moustache. His face is small, sharp, and discolored with the
sun, his eyes grey and restless, his hair fair, his mouth wide and
characterless. Cunning and low intrigue are marked in every feature of
his face; and you look in vain for the slightest evidence of a frank and
manly nature.
"Only heard you were home an hour ago. Set right off in pursuit of you.
Cannot say exactly what impelled me. Love, perhaps, as I said before."
Mr. Snivel twirls his hat in the air, and condescends to say he feels in
an exceedingly happy state of mind. "I knew you needed a protector,
and came to offer myself as your escort. I take this occasion to say, that
you have always seen me in the false light my enemies magnify me in."
"I have no need of your escort, Mr. Snivel; and your friendship I can
dispense with, since, up to this time, it has only increased my trouble,"
she interposes, continuing down the avenue.
"We all need friends----"
"True friends, you mean, Mr. Snivel."
"Well, then, have it so. You hold that all is false in men. I hold no such
thing. Come, give me your confidence, Anna. Look on the bright side.
Forget the past, and let the present serve. When you want a friend, or a
job of law, call on me." Mr. Snivel adjusts his eye-glass, and again
twirls his hat.
The fair girl shakes her head and says, "she hopes never to need either.
But, tell me, Mr. Snivel, are you not the messenger of some one else?"
she continues.
"Well, I confess," he replies, with a bow, "its partly so and partly not so.
I came to put in one word for myself and two for the judge. Its no
breach of confidence to say he loves you to distraction. At home in any

court, you know, and stands well with the bar----"
"Love for me! He can have no love for me. I am but an outcast, tossed
on the sea of uncertainty; all bright to-day, all darkness to-morrow. Our
life is a stream of excitement, down which we sail quickly to a
miserable death. I know the doom, and feel the pang. But men do not
love us, and the world never regrets us. Go, tell him to forget me."
"Forget you? not he. Sent me to