MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. AUTHOR OF "LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT of the belle CREOLE," "THE BANISHED SON, ‘MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING," "THE LOST daughter,' "HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNING-WHEEL," "I saw her once-so freshly fair, That, like a blossom just unfolding, She opened to life's cloudless air; And nature joyed to view its moulding. Oh! who could look on such a form, So heavenly fair, so softly tender, And darkly dream, that earthly sin Should dim such sweet, delicious splendour." PHILADELPHIA: T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 306 CHESTNUT STREET. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS. Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume. LINDA; OR, THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. ROBERT GRAHAM. A SEQUEL TO "LINDA." RENA; OR, THE SNOW BIRD. A TALE OF REAL LIFE. FOLINE; OR, MAGNOLIA VALE; OR, THE HEIRESS of .GLENMORE. MARCUS WARLAND; OR, THE LONG MOSS SPRING. ERNEST LINWOOD; OR, THE INNER LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. THE PLANTER'S NORTHERN BRIDE; OR, SCENES IN MRS. HENTZ'S CHILDHOOD. HELEN AND ARTHUR; OR, MISS THUSA'S SPINNINGWHEEL. COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE; OR, THE JOYS ANO SORROWS OF AMERICAN LIFE. LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE. THE LOST DAUGHTER. THE BANISHED SON. Price $1.75 each in Morocco Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any e all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA. RENA; OR, THE SNOWBIRD. CHAPTER I. Oh! how canst thou renounce the boundless store And all that echoes to the song of even All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, Oh! how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ?” BEATTIE. "You don't love me, mama," said a weary-looking child, who was sitting on a low chair, right in the corner of the room, to a pale, sickly lady, who was at a table by the open window, sewing. The soft summer air was blowing softly, very softly upon the delicate cheek of the invalid, tempering the heat of a sultry August day. It was much pleasanter sitting there, breathing the only air circulating in the room, than 3779 .87 375 ECAP) 801140 (13) in that little hot corner, where the child was ensconced, between two black-bottomed, mahogany-backed chairs. "You don't love me, mama," repeated the child, in the desperation of her weariness, stretching her arms and feet as far as they could possibly extend," or you wouldn't make me sit here so long. I'm so tired! I ache all over! Please let me go." "You are so noisy, Rena-so disobedient. I told you half a dozen times to be quiet, and not romp about so in the yard. I have no other way to keep you still, but by confining you in the house. It does no good to speak to you. It is your own fault." "I don't mean to be disobedient, mama-I forget. I can't think to remember, I'm so happy out of doors. I cannot help singing and laughing. I won't do so any more." "Then you get so brown in the sun. You never will wear a bonnet. You make a complete fright of yourself." "The little calves have brown skins, mama: and they are pretty." "Do hear the child talk!" said the mother. She could not help smiling. Rena caught the reflection of the smile on her heart. It was the herald of release from captivity. She could not wait for the permission for which she had been pleading, but, springing up, she caught her mother round the neck, and gave her one, two, three, half a dozen kisses, without stopping to take breath. As we said before, it was a very warm day, and she had been sitting an hour in a very warm, close corner, and thick drops of perspiration were standing on her glowing face. Every one knows it is not very pleasant to have a moist, adhesive child (however dear that child may be) hanging to the neck, when the thermometer is above ninety degrees, and the very contact of the lightest garment is oppressive. Poor Mrs. Fay was an invalid, subject to sick headaches and palpi tations of the heart, and many other nervous pains, which, though they did not confine her to the bed, made her extremely sensitive to noise and annoyances of any kind. It is not to be wondered then that instead of reciprocating with maternal tenderness the smothering caresses of Rena, she tried to liberate herself as speedily as possible from the moist little arms that squeezed her so tightly. "Oh! mercy!" she cried, panting for breath, "go away, child. You suffocate me to death! Yes, yes, run out doors and play, if you will-only don't make a noise. Go off into the fields, where I can't hear you. There-go-don't tease me any more." One more rapturous kiss, and Rena bounded through the door. Stop, child! your bonnet. You are going without anything on your head into the broiling sun. When will you learn to obey? Haven't I told you a thousand times never to go out without a bonnet ?" Mrs. Fay spoke of a bonnet from habit; but having found it impossible to keep a bonnet on Rena's head in such a manner as to protect her face, she had adopted a large, broadbrimmed straw-hat, such as little boys wear, in its stead. She had made use of every expedient woman's invention could suggest, to fasten the bonnet on the head of the child, so as to elude her efforts to throw it off. She had tied the strings in double knots, she had sewed the deep pasteboard, which constituted the framework of the bonnet, so closely together, that her little round face seemed lost in the distance and obscurity; but Rena had a way of emerging from its depths the moment she was abroad, that was quite supernatural. Without breaking the knots or stitches, she would have her face thrust out into the sunshine, careless of the fervid rays that dyed her rosy cheeks with brown. The hat she was willing to wear. It did not fetter the elastic movements of her neck; it did not |