It needs not to say that, on such an occasion, in their own father's mansion, and at the celebration of one sister's birth-day, Blanche and Agnes, had their attractions been much smaller, their pretensions much more lowly than they really were, would have received boundless attention. But being as they were infinitely the finest girls in the room, and being, moreover, new debutantes on the stage of fashion, there was no limit to the admiration, to the furor which they excited among the wits and lady-killers of the day.

Many an antiquated Miss, proud of past conquests, and unable yet to believe that her career of triumph was, indeed, ended, would turn up an envious nose, and utter a sharp sneer at the forwardness and hoyden mirth of that pert Mistress Agnes, or at the coldness and inanimate smile of the fair heiress; but the sneer, even were it the sneer of a duke's or a minister's daughter, fell harmless, or yet worse, drew forth a prompt defence of the unjustly assailed beauty.

No greater proof could be adduced, indeed, of the amazing success of the sister beauties, than the unanimous decision of every lady in the room numbering less than forty years, that they were by no means uncommon; were pretty country hoppets, who, as soon as the novelty of their first appearance should have worn out, would cease to be admired, and sink back into their proper sphere of insignificance.

So thought not the gentle cavaliers; and there were many present there, well qualified to judge of ladies' minds as of ladies' persons; and not a few were heard to swear aloud, that the Fitz-Henries were as far above the rest of their sex in wit, and graceful accomplishment, as in beauty of form and face, and elegance of motion.

See! they are dancing now some gay, newly invented, Spanish dance, each whirling through the voluptuous mazes of the courtly measure with her own characteristic air and manner, each evidently pleased with her partner, each evidently charming him in turn; and the two together enchaining all eyes, and interesting all spectators, so that a gentle hum of approbation is heard running through the crowd, as they pause, blushing and panting from the exertion and excitement of the dance.

"Fore Gad! she is exquisite, George! I have seen nothing like her in my time," lisped a superb coxcomb, attired in a splendid civilian's suit of Pompadour and silver, to a young cornet of the Life Guard who stood beside him.

"Which she, my lord?" inquired the standard-bearer, in reply. "Methinks they both deserve your encomiums; but I would fain know which of the two your lordship means, for fame speaks you a dangerous rival against whom to enter the lists."

"What, George!" cried the other, gayly, "are you about to have a throw for the heiress? Pshaw! it wont do, man—never think of it! Why, though you are an earl's second son, and date your creation from the days of Hump-backed Dickon, old Allan would vote you a novus homo, as we used to say at Christ Church. Pshaw! George, go hang yourself! No one has a chance of winning that fair loveliness, much less of wearing her, unless he can quarter Sir Japhet's bearings on his coat armorial."

"It is the heiress, then, my lord," answered George Delawarr, merrily. "I thought as much from the first. Well, I'll relieve your lordship, as you have relieved me, from all fear of rivalry. I am devoted to the dark beauty. Egad! there's life, there's fire for you! Why, I should have thought the flash of that eye-glance would have reduced Jack Greville to cinders in a moment, yet there he stands, as calm and impassive a puppy as ever dangled a plumed hat, or played with a sword-knot. Your fair beauty's cold, my lord. Give me that Italian complexion, and that coal-black hair! Gad zooks! I honor the girl's spirit for not disguising it with starch and pomatum. There's more passion in her little finger, than in the whole soul of the other."

"You're out there, George Delawarr," returned the peer. "Trust me, it is not always the quickest flame that burns the strongest; nor the liveliest girl that feels the most deeply. There's an old saying, and a true one, that still water aye runs deep. And, trust me, if I know any thing of the dear, delicious, devilish sex, as methinks I am not altogether a novice at the trade, if ever Blanche Fitz-Henry love at all, she will love with her whole soul and heart and spirit. That gay, laughing brunette will love you with her tongue, her eyes, her head, and perhaps her fancy—the other, if, as I say, she ever love at all, will love with her whole being."

"The broad acres! my lord! all the broad acres!" replied the cornet, laughing more merrily than before. "Fore Gad! I think it the very thing for you. For the first Lord St. George was, I believe, in the ark with Noah, so that you will pass current with the first gentleman of England. I prithee, my lord, push your suit, and help me on a little with my dark Dulcinea."

"Faith! George, I've no objection; and see, this dance is over. Let us go up and ask their fair hands. You'll have no trouble in ousting that shallow-pated puppy Jack, and I think I can put the pass on Mr. privy-counsellor there, although he is simpering so prettily. But, hold a moment, have you been duly and in form presented to your black-eyed beauty?"

"Upon my soul! I hope so, my lord. It were very wrong else; for I have danced with her three times to-night already."

"The devil! Well, come along, quick. I see that they are going to announce supper, so soon as this next dance shall be ended; and if we can engage them now, we shall have their fair company for an hour at least."

"I am with you, my lord!"

And away they sauntered through the crowd, and ere long were coupled for a little space each to the lady of his choice.

The dance was soon over, and then, as Lord St. George had surmised, supper was announced, and the cavaliers led their ladies to the sumptuous board, and there attended them with all that courtly and respectful service, which, like many another good thing, has passed away and been forgotten with the diamond-hilted sword, and the full bottomed periwig.

George Delawarr was full as ever of gay quips and merry repartees; his wit was as sparkling as the champagne which in some degree inspired it, and as innocent. There was no touch of bitterness or satire in his polished and gentle humor; no envy or dislike pointed his quick, epigrammatic speech; but all was clear, light, and transparent, as the sunny air at noonday. Nor was his conversation altogether light and mirthful. There were at times bursts of high enthusiasm, at which he would himself laugh heartily a moment afterward—there were touches of passing romance and poetry blending in an under-current with his fluent mirth; and, above all, there was an evident strain of right feeling, of appreciation of all that was great and generous and good, predominant above romance and wit, perceptible in every word he uttered.

And Agnes listened, and laughed, and flung back skillfully and cleverly the ball of conversation, as he tossed it to her. She was pleased, it was evident, and amused. But she was pleased only as with a clever actor, a brilliant performer on some new instrument now heard for the first time. The gay, wild humor of the young man hit her fancy; his mad wit struck a kindred chord in her mind; but the latent poetry and romance passed unheeded, and the noblest point of all, the good and gracious feelings, made no impression on the polished but hard surface of the bright maiden's heart.

Meantime, how fared the peer with the calmer and gentler sister? Less brilliant than George Delawarr, he had traveled much, had seen more of men and things, had a more cultivated mind, was more of a scholar, and no less of a gentleman, scarce less perhaps of a soldier; for he had served a campaign or two in his early youth in the Low Countries.

He was a noble and honorable man, clever, and eloquent, and well esteemed—a little, perhaps, spoiled by that good esteem, a little too confident of himself, too conscious of his own good mien and good parts, and a little hardened, if very much polished, by continual contact with the world.

He was, however, an easy and agreeable talker, accustomed to the society of ladies, in which he was held to shine, and fond of shining. He exerted himself also that night, partly because he was really struck with Blanche's grace and beauty, partly because Delawarr's liveliness and wit excited him to a sort of playful rivalry.

Still, he was not successful; for though Blanche listened graciously, and smiled in the right places, and spoke in answer pleasantly and well, when she did speak, and evidently wished to appear and to be amused; her mind was at times absent and distracted, and it could not long escape the observation of so thorough a man of the world as Lord St. George, that he had not made that impression on the young country damsel which he was wont to make, with one half the effort, on what might be supposed more difficult ladies.

But though he saw this plainly, he was too much of a gentleman to be either piqued or annoyed; and if any thing he exerted himself the more to please, when he believed exertion useless; and by degrees his gentle partner laid aside her abstraction, and entered into the spirit of the hour with something of her sister's mirth, though with a quieter and more chastened tone.

It was a pleasant party, and a merry evening; but like all other things, merry or sad, it had its end, and passed away, and by many was forgotten; but there were two persons present there who never while they lived forgot that evening—for there were other two, to whom it was indeed the commencement of the end.

But the hour for parting had arrived, and with the ceremonious greetings of those days, deep bows and stately courtesies, and kissing of fair hands, and humble requests to be permitted to pay their duty on the following day, the cavaliers and ladies parted.

When the two gallants stood together in the great hall, George Delawarr turned suddenly to the peer—

"Where the deuce are you going to sleep to-night, St. George? You came down hither all the way from London, did you not? You surely do not mean to return to-night."

"I surely do not wish it, you mean, George. No, truly. But I do mean it. For my fellows tell me that there is not a bed to be had for love, which does not at all surprise me, or for money, which I confess does somewhat, in Eton, Slough, or Windsor. And if I must go back to Brentford or to Hounslow, as well at once to London."

"Come with me! Come with me, St. George. I can give you quarters in the barracks, and a good breakfast, and a game of tennis if you will; and afterward, if you like, we'll ride over and see how these bright-eyed beauties look by daylight, after all this night-work."

"A good offer, George, and I'll take it as it is offered."

"How are you here? In a great lumbering coach I suppose. Well, look you, I have got two horses here; you shall take mine, and I'll ride on my fellow's, who shall go with your people and pilot them on the road, else they'll be getting that great gilded Noah's ark into Datchet-ditch. Have you got any tools? Ay! ay! I see you travel well equipped, if you do ride in your coach. Now your riding-cloak, the nights are damp here, by the river-side, even in summer; oh! never mind your pistols, you'll find a brace in my holsters, genuine Kuchenreuters. I can hit a crown piece with them, for a hundred guineas, at fifty paces."

"Heaven send that you never shoot at me with them, if that's the case, George."

"Heaven send that I never shoot at any one, my lord, unless it be an enemy of my king and country, and in open warfare; for so certainly as I do shoot I shall kill."

"I do not doubt you, George. But let's be off. The lights are burning low in the sockets, and these good fellows are evidently tired out with their share of our festivity. Fore Gad! I believe we are the last of the guests."

And with the word, the young men mounted joyously, and galloped away at the top of their horses' speed to the quarters of the life-guard in Windsor.

Half an hour after their departure, the two sisters sat above stairs in a pleasant chamber, disrobing themselves, with the assistance of their maidens, of the cumbrous and stiff costumes of the ball-room, and jesting merrily over the events of the evening.

"Well, Blanche," said Agnes archly, "confess, siss, who is the lord paramount, the beau par excellence, of the ball? I know, you demure puss! After all, it is ever the quiet cat that licks the cream. But to think that on your very first night you should have made such a conquest. So difficult, too, to please, they say, and all the great court ladies dying for him."

"Hush! madcap. I don't know who you mean. At all events, I have not danced four dances in one evening with one cavalier. Ah! have I caught you, pretty mistress?"

"Oh! that was only poor George Delawarr. A paltry cornet in the guards. He will do well enough to have dangling after one, to play with, while he amuses one—but fancy, being proud of conquering poor George! His namesake with the Saint before it were worth a score of such."

"Fie, sister!" said Blanche, gravely. "I do not love to hear you talk so. I am sure he's a very pretty gentleman, and has twice as much head as my lord, if I'm not mistaken; and three times as much heart."

"Heart, indeed, siss! Much you know about hearts, I fancy. But, now that you speak of it, I will try if he has got a heart. If he has, he will do well to pique some more eligible—"

"Oh! Agnes, Agnes! I cannot hear you—"

"Pshaw!" interrupted the younger sister, very bitterly, "this affectation of sentiment and disinterestedness sits very prettily on the heiress of Ditton-in-the-Dale, Long Netherby, and Waltham Ferrers, three manors, and ten thousand pounds a year to buy a bridegroom! Poor I, with my face for my fortune, must needs make my wit eke out my want of dowry. And I'm not one, I promise you, siss, to choose love in a cottage. No, no! Give me your Lord St. George, and I'll make over all my right and title to poor George Delawarr this minute. Heigho! I believe the fellow is smitten with me after all. Well, well! I'll have some fun with him before I have done yet."

"Agnes," said Blanche, gravely, but reproachfully, "I have long seen that you are light, and careless whom you wound with your wild words, but I never thought before that you were bad-hearted."

"Bad-hearted, sister!"

"Yes! bad-hearted! To speak to me of manors, or of money, as if for fifty wills, or five hundred fathers, I would ever profit by a parent's whim to rob my sister of her portion. As if I would not rather lie in the cold grave, than that my sister should have a wish ungratified, which I had power to gratify, much less that she should narrow down the standard of her choice—the holiest and most sacred thing on earth—to the miserable scale of wealth and title. Out upon it! out upon it! Never, while you live, speak so to me again!"

"Sister, I never will. I did not mean it, sister, dear," cried Agnes, now much affected, as she saw how vehemently Blanche was moved. "You should not heed me. You know my wild, rash way, and how I speak whatever words come first."

"Those were very meaning words, Agnes—and very bitter, too. They cut me to the heart," cried the fair girl, bursting into a flood of passionate tears.

"Oh! do not—do not, Blanche. Forgive me, dearest! Indeed, indeed, I meant nothing!"

"Forgive you, Agnes! I have nothing to forgive. I was not even angry, but pained, but sorry for you, sister; for sure I am, that if you give way to this bitter, jealous spirit, you will work much anguish to yourself, and to all those who love you."

"Jealous, Blanche!"

"Yes, Agnes, jealous! But let us say no more. Let this pass, and be forgotten; but never, dear girl, if you love me, as I think you do, never so speak to me again."

"I never, never will." And she fell upon her neck, and kissed her fondly, as her heart relented, and she felt something of sincere repentance for the harsh words which she had spoken, and the hard, bitter feelings which suggested them.

Another hour, and, clasped in each others' arms, they were sleeping as sweetly as though no breath of this world's bitterness had ever blown upon their hearts, or stirred them into momentary strife.

Peace to their slumbers, and sweet dreams!

It was, perhaps, an hour or two after noon, and the early dinner of the time was already over, when the two sisters strolled out into the gardens, unaccompanied, except by a tall old greyhound, Blanche's peculiar friend and guardian, and some two or three beautiful silky-haired King Charles spaniels.

After loitering for a little while among the trim parterres, and box-edged terraces, and gathering a few sweet summer flowers, they turned to avoid the heat, which was excessive, into the dark elm avenue, and wandered along between the tall black yew hedges, linked arm-in-arm, indeed, but both silent and abstracted, and neither of them conscious of the rich melancholy music of the nightingales, which was ringing all around them in that pleasant solitude.

Both, indeed, were buried in deep thought; and each, perhaps, for the first time in her life, felt that her thought was such that she could not, dared not, communicate it to her sister.

For Blanche Fitz-Henry had, on the previous night, began, for the first time in her life, to suspect that she was the owner, for the time being, of a commodity called a heart, although it may be that the very suspicion proved in some degree that the possession was about to pass, if it were not already passing, from her.

In sober seriousness, it must be confessed that the young cornet of the Life Guards, although he had made so little impression on her to whom he had devoted his attentions, had produced an effect different from any thing which she had ever fell before on the mind of the elder sister. It was not his good mien, nor his noble air that had struck her; for though he was a well-made, fine-looking man, of graceful manners, and high-born carriage, there were twenty men in the room with whom he could not for five minutes have sustained a comparison in point of personal appearance.

His friend, the Viscount St. George, to whom she had lent but a cold ear, was a far handsomer man. Nor was it his wit and gay humor, and easy flow of conversation, that had captivated her fancy; although she certainly did think him the most agreeable man she had ever listened to. No, it was the under-current of delicate and poetical thought, the glimpses of a high and noble spirit, which flashed out at times through the light veil of reckless merriment, which, partly in compliance with the spirit of the day, and partly because his was a gay and mirthful nature, he had superinduced over the deeper and grander points of his character. No; it was a certain originality of mind, which assured her that, though he might talk lightly, he was one to feel fervently and deeply—it was the impress of truth, and candor, and high independence, which was stamped on his every word and action, that first riveted her attention, and, in spite of her resistance, half fascinated her imagination.

This it was that had held her abstracted and apparently indifferent, while Lord St. George was exerting all his powers of entertainment in her behalf; this it was that had roused her indignation at hearing her sister speak so slightingly, and, as it seemed to her, so ungenerously of one whom she felt intuitively to be good and noble.

This it was which now held her mute and thoughtful, and almost sad; for she felt conscious that she was on the verge of loving—loving one who, for aught that he had shown as yet, cared naught for her, perhaps even preferred another—and that other her own sister.

Thereupon her maiden modesty rallied tumultuous to the rescue, and suggested the shame of giving love unasked, giving it, perchance, to be scorned—and almost she resolved to stifle the infant feeling in its birth, and rise superior to the weakness. But when was ever love vanquished by cold argument, or bound at the chariot-wheels of reason.

The thought would still rise up prominent, turn her mind to whatever subject she would, coupled with something of pity at the treatment which he was like to meet from Agnes, something of vague, unconfessed pleasure that it was so, and something of secret hope that his eyes would erelong be opened, and that she might prove, in the end, herself his consoler.

And what, meanwhile, were the dreams of Agnes? Bitter—bitter, and black, and hateful. Oh! it is a terrible consideration, how swiftly evil thoughts, once admitted to the heart, take root and flourish, and grow up into a rank and poisonous crop, choking the good grain utterly, and corrupting the very soil of which they have taken hold. There is but one hope—but one! To tear them from the root forcibly, though the heart-strings crack, and the soul trembles, as with a spiritual earthquake. To nerve the mind firmly and resolutely, yet humbly withal, and contritely, and with prayer against temptation, prayer for support from on high—to resist the Evil One with the whole force of the intellect, the whole truth of the heart, and to stop the ears steadfastly against the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.

But so did not Agnes Fitz-Henry. It is true that on the preceding night her better feelings had been touched, her heart had relented, and she had banished, as she thought, the evil counsellors, ambition, envy, jealousy, and distrust, from her spirit.

But with the night the better influence passed away, and ere the morning had well come, the evil spirit had returned to his dwelling place, and brought with him other spirits, worse and more wicked than himself.

The festive scene of the previous evening had, for the first time opened her eyes fairly to her own position; she read it in the demeanor of all present; she heard it in the whispers which unintentionally reached her ears; she felt it intuitively in the shade—it was not a shade, yet she observed it—of difference perceptible in the degree of deference and courtesy paid to herself and to her sister.

She felt, for the first time, that Blanche was every thing, herself a mere cipher—that Blanche was the lady of the manor, the cynosure of all eyes, the queen of all hearts, herself but the lady's poor relation, the dependent on her bounty, and at the best a creature to be played with, and petted for her beauty and her wit, without regard to her feelings, or sympathy for her heart.

And prepared as she was at all times to resist even just authority with insolent rebellion; ready as she was always to assume the defensive, and from that the offensive against all whom she fancied offenders, how angrily did her heart now boil up, how almost fiercely did she muster her faculties to resist, to attack, to conquer, to annihilate all whom she deemed her enemies—and that, for the moment, was the world.

Conscious of her own beauty, of her own wit, of her own high and powerful intellect, perhaps over-confident in her resources, she determined on that instant that she would devote them all, all to one purpose, to which she would bend every energy, direct every thought of her mind—to her own aggrandizement, by means of some great and splendid marriage, which should set her as far above the heiress of Ditton-in-the-Dale, as the rich heiress now stood in the world's eye above the portionless and dependent sister.

Nor was this all—there was a sterner, harder, and more wicked feeling yet, springing up in her heart, and whispering the sweetness of revenge—revenge on that amiable and gentle sister, who, so far from wronging her, had loved her ever with the tenderest and most affectionate love, who would have sacrificed her dearest wishes to her welfare—but whom, in the hardness of her embittered spirit, she could now see only as an intruder upon her own just rights, a rival on the stage of fashion, perhaps in the interests of the heart—whom she already envied, suspected, almost hated.

And Blanche, at that self-same moment, had resolved to keep watch on her own heart narrowly, and to observe her sister's bearing toward George Delawarr, that in case she should perceive her favoring his suit, she might at once crush down the germ of rising passion, and sacrifice her own to her dear sister's happiness.

Alas! Blanche! Alas! Agnes!

Thus they strolled onward, silently and slowly, until they reached the little green before the summer-house, which was then the gayest and most lightsome place that can be imagined, with its rare paintings glowing in their undimmed hues, its gilding bright and burnished, its furniture all sumptuous and new, and instead of the dark funereal ivy, covered with woodbine and rich clustered roses. The windows were all thrown wide open to the perfumed summer air, and the warm light poured in through the gaps in the tree-tops, and above the summits of the then carefully trimmed hedgerows, blithe and golden.

They entered and sat down, still pensive and abstracted; but erelong the pleasant and happy influences of the time and place appeared to operate in some degree on the feelings of both, but especially on the tranquil and well-ordered mind of the elder sister. She raised her head suddenly, and was about to speak, when the rapid sound of horses' feet, unheard on the soft sand until they were hard by, turned her attention to the window, and the next moment the two young cavaliers, who were even then uppermost in her mind, came into view, cantering along slowly on their well-managed chargers.

Her eye was not quicker than those of the gallant riders, who, seeing the ladies, whom they had ridden over to visit, sitting by the windows of the summer-house, checked their horses on the instant, and doffed their plumed hats.

"Good faith, fair ladies, we are in fortune's graces to-day," said the young peer, gracefully, "since having ridden thus far on our way to pay you our humble devoirs, we meet you thus short of our journey's end."

"But how are we to win our way to you," cried Delawarr, "as you sit there bright chatelaines of your enchanted bower—for I see neither fairy skiff, piloted by grim-visaged dwarfs, to waft us over, nor even a stray dragon, by aid of whose broad wings to fly across this mimic moat, which seems to be something of the deepest?"

"Oh! gallop on, gay knights," said Agnes, smiling on Lord St. George, but averting her face somewhat from the cornet, "gallop on to the lodges, and leaving there your coursers, take the first path on the left hand, and that will lead you to our presence; and should you peradventure get entangled in the hornbeam maze, why, one of us two will bring you the clue, like a second Ariadne. Ride on and we will meet you. Come, sister, let us walk."

Blanche had as yet scarcely found words to reply to the greeting of the gallants, for the coincidence of their arrival with her own thoughts had embarrassed her a little, and she had blushed crimson as she caught the eye of George Delawarr fixed on her with a marked expression, beneath which her own dropped timidly. But now she arose, and bowing with an easy smile, and a few pleasant words, expressed her willingness to abide by her sister's plan.

In a few minutes the ladies met their gallants in the green labyrinth of which Agnes had spoken, and falling into pairs, for the walk was too narrow to allow them all four to walk abreast, they strolled in company toward the Hall.

What words they said, I am not about to relate—for such conversations, though infinitely pleasant to the parties, are for the most part infinitely dull to third persons—but it so fell out, not without something of forwardness and marked management, which did not escape the young soldier's rapid eye, on the part of Agnes, that the order of things which had been on the previous evening was reversed; the gay, rattling girl attaching herself perforce to the viscount, not without a sharp and half-sarcastic jest at the expense of her former partner, and the mild heiress falling to his charge.

George Delawarr had been smitten, it is true, the night before by the gayety and rapid intellect of Agnes, as well as by the wild and peculiar style of her beauty; and it might well have been that the temporary fascination might have ripened into love. But he was hurt, and disgusted even more than hurt, by her manner, and observing her with a watchful eye as she coquetted with his friend, he speedily came to the conclusion that St. George was right in his estimate of her character at least, although he now seemed to be flattered and amused by her evident prepossession in his favor.

He had not, it is true, been deeply enough touched to feel either pique or melancholy at this discovery, but was so far heart-whole as to be rather inclined to laugh at the fickleness of the merry jilt, than either to repine or to be angry.

He was by no means the man, however, to cast away the occasion of pleasure; and walking with so beautiful and soft a creature as Blanche, he naturally abandoned himself to the tide of the hour, and in a little while found himself engaged in a conversation, which, if less sparkling and brilliant, was a thousand times more charming than that which he had yesterday held with her sister.

In a short time he had made the discovery that with regard to the elder sister, too, his friend's penetration had exceeded his own; and that beneath that calm and tranquil exterior there lay a deep and powerful mind, stored with a treasury of the richest gems of thought and feeling. He learned in that long woodland walk that she was, indeed, a creature both to adore and to be adored; and he, too, like St. George, was certain, that the happy man whom she should love, would be loved for himself alone, with the whole fervor, the whole truth, the whole concentrated passion of a heart, the flow of which once unloosed, would be but the stronger for the restraint which had hitherto confined it.

Erelong, as they reached the wider avenue, the two parties united, and then, more than ever, he perceived the immense superiority in all lovable, all feminine points, of the elder to the younger sister; for Agnes, though brilliant and seemingly thoughtless and spirit-free as ever, let fall full many a bitter word, many a covert taunt and hidden sneer, which, with his eyes now opened as they were, he readily detected, and which Blanche, as he could discover, even through her graceful quietude, felt, and felt painfully.

They reached the Hall at length, and were duly welcomed by its master; refreshments were offered and accepted—and the young men were invited to return often, and a day was fixed on which they should partake the hospitalities of Ditton, at least as temporary residents.

The night was already closing in when they mounted their horses and withdrew, both well pleased with their visit—for the young lord was in pursuit of amusement only, and seeing at a glance the coyness of the heiress, and the somewhat forward coquetry of her sister, he had accommodated himself to circumstances, and determined that a passing flirtation with so pretty a girl, and a short sejour at a house so well-appointed as Ditton, would be no unpleasant substitute for London in the dog-days; and George Delawarr, like Romeo, had discarded the imaginary love the moment he found the true Juliet. If not in love, he certainly was fascinated, charmed; he certainly thought Blanche the sweetest, and most lovely girl he had ever met, and was well inclined to believe that she was the best and most admirable. He trembled on the verge of his fate.

And she—her destiny was fixed already, and forever! And when she saw her sister delighted with the attentions of the youthful nobleman, she smiled to herself, and dreamed a pleasant dream, and gave herself up to the sweet delusion. She had already asked her own heart "does he love me?" and though it fluttered sorely, and hesitated for a while, it did not answer, "No!"

But as the gentlemen rode homeward, St. George turned shortly on his companion, and said, gravely,

"You have changed your mind, Delawarr, and found out that I am right. Nevertheless, beware! do not, for God's sake, fall in love with her, or make her love you!"

The blood flushed fiery-red to the ingenuous brow of George Delawarr, and he was embarrassed for a moment. Then he tried to turn off his confusion with a jest.

"What, jealous, my lord! jealous of a poor cornet, with no other fortune than an honorable name, and a bright sword! I thought you, too, had changed your mind, when I saw you flirting so merrily with that merry brunette."

"You did see me flirting, George—nothing more; and I have changed my mind, since the beginning, if not since the end of last evening—for I thought at first that fair Blanche Fitz-Henry would make me a charming wife; and now I am sure that she would not—"

"Why so, my lord? For God's sake! why say you so?"

"Because she never would love me, George; and I would never marry any woman, unless I were sure that she both could and did. So you see that I am not the least jealous; but still I say, don't fall in love with her—"

"Faith! St. George, but your admonition comes somewhat late—for I believe I am half in love with her already."

"Then stop where you are, and go no deeper—for if I err not, she is more than half in love with you, too."

"A strange reason, St. George, wherefore to bid me stop!"

"A most excellent good one!" replied the other, gravely, and almost sadly, "for mutual love between you two can only lead to mutual misery. Her father never would consent to her marrying you more than he would to her marrying a peasant—the man is perfectly insane on the subject of title-deeds and heraldry, and will accept no one for his son-in-law who cannot show as many quarterings as a Spanish grandee, or a German noble. But, of course, it is of no use talking about it. Love never yet listened to reason; and, moreover, I suppose what is to be is to be—come what may."

"And what will you do, St. George, about Agnes? I think you are touched there a little!"

"Not a whit I—honor bright! And for what I will do—amuse myself, George—amuse myself, and that pretty coquette, too; and if I find her less of a coquette, with more of a heart than I fancy she has—" he stopped short, and laughed.

"Well, what then—what then?" cried George Delawarr.

"It will be time enough to decide then."

"And so say I, St. George. Meanwhile, I too will amuse myself."

"Ay! but observe this special difference—what is fun to you may be death to her, for she has a heart, and a fine, and true, and deep one; may be death to yourself—for you, too, are honorable, and true, and noble; and that is why I love you, George, and why I speak to you thus, at the risk of being held meddlesome or impertinent."

"Oh, never, never!" exclaimed Delawarr, moving his horse closer up to him, and grasping his hand warmly, "never! You meddlesome or impertinent! Let me hear no man call you so. But I will think of this. On my honor, I will think of this that you have said!"

And he did think of it. Thought of it often, deeply—and the more he thought, the more he loved Blanche Fitz-Henry.

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and still those two young cavaliers were constant visiters, sometimes alone, sometimes with other gallants in their company, at Ditton-in-the-Dale. And ever still, despite his companion's warning, Delawarr lingered by the fair heiress' side, until both were as deeply enamored as it is possible for two persons to be, both single-hearted, both endowed with powerful intellect, and powerful imagination; both of that strong and energetic temperament which renders all impressions permanent, all strong passions immortal. It was strange that there should have been two persons, and there were but two, who discovered nothing of what was passing—suspected nothing of the deep feelings which possessed the hearts of the young lovers; while all else marked the growth of liking into love, of love into that absolute and over-whelming idolatry, which but few souls can comprehend, and which to those few is the mightiest of blessings or the blackest of curses.

And those two, as is oftentimes the case, were the very two whom it most concerned to perceive, and who imagined themselves the quickest and the clearest sighted—Allan Fitz-Henry, and the envious Agnes.

But so true is it that the hope is oft parent to the thought, and the thought again to security and conviction, that, having in the first instance made up his mind that Lord St. George would be a most suitable successor to the name of the family, and secondly, that he was engaged in prosecuting his suit to the elder daughter, her father gave himself no further trouble in the matter, but suffered things to take their own course without interference.

He saw, indeed, that in public the viscount was more frequently the companion of Agnes than of Blanche; that there seemed to be a better and more rapid intelligence between them; and that Blanche appeared better pleased with George Delawarr's than with the viscount's company.

But, to a man blinded by his own wishes and prejudices, such evidences went as nothing. He set it down at once to the score of timidity on Blanche's part, and to the desire of avoiding unnecessary notoriety on St. George's; and saw nothing but what was perfectly natural and comprehensible, in the fact that the younger sister and the familiar friend should be the mutual confidents, perhaps the go-betweens, of the two acknowledged lovers.

He was in high good-humor, therefore; and as he fancied himself on the high-road to the full fruition of his schemes, nothing could exceed his courtesy and kindness to the young cornet, whom he almost overpowered with those tokens of affection and regard which he did not choose to lavish on the peer, lest he should be thought to be courting his alliance.

Agnes, in the meantime, was so busy in the prosecution of her assault on Lord St. George's heart, on which she began to believe that she had made some permanent impression, that she was perfectly contented with her own position, and was well-disposed to let other people enjoy themselves, provided they did not interfere with her proceedings. It is true that, at times, in the very spirit of coquetry, she would resume her flirtation with George Delawarr, for the double purpose of piquing the viscount, and playing with the cornet's affections, which, blinded by self-love, she still believed to be devoted to her pretty self.

But Delawarr was so happy in himself, that, without any intention of playing with Agnes, or deceiving her, he joked and rattled with her as he would with a sister, and believing that she must understand their mutual situation, at times treated her with a sort of quiet fondness, as a man naturally does the sister of his betrothed or his bride, which effectually completed her hallucination.

The consequence of all this was, that, while they were unintentionally deceiving others, they were fatally deceiving themselves likewise; and of this, it is probable that no one was aware, with the exception of St. George, who, seeing that his warnings were neglected, did not choose to meddle further in the matter, although keeping himself ready to aid the lovers to the utmost of his ability by any means that should offer.

In the innocence of their hearts, and the purity of their young love, they fancied that what was so clear to themselves, must be apparent to the eyes of others; and they flattered themselves that the lady's father not only saw, but approved their affection, and that, when the fitting time should arrive, there would be no obstacle to the accomplishment of their happiness.

It is true that Blanche spoke not of her love to her sister, for, apart from the aversion which a refined and delicate girl must ever feel to touching on that subject, unless the secret be teased or coaxed out of her by some near and affectionate friend, there had grown up a sort of distance, not coldness, nor dislike, nor distrust, but simply distance, and lack of communication between the sisters since the night of the birth-day ball. Still Blanche doubted not that her sister saw and knew all that was passing in her mind, in the same manner as she read her heart; and it was to her evident liking for Lord St. George, and the engrossing claim of her own affections on all her thoughts, and all her time, that she attributed her carelessness of herself.

Deeply, however, did she err, and cruelly was she destined to be undeceived.

The early days of autumn had arrived, and the woods had donned their many-colored garments, when on a calm, sweet evening—one of those quiet and delicious evenings peculiar to that season—Blanche and George Delawarr had wandered away from the gay concourse which filled the gardens, and unseen, as they believed, and unsuspected, had turned into the old labyrinth where first they had begun to love, and were wrapped in soft dreams of the near approach of more perfect happiness.

But a quick, hard eye was upon them—the eye of Agnes; for, by chance, Lord St. George was absent, having been summoned to attend the king at Windsor; and being left to herself, her busy mind, too busy to rest for a moment idle, plunged into mischief and malevolence.

No sooner did she see them turn aside from the broad walk than the cloud was withdrawn, as if by magic, from her eyes; and she saw almost intuitively all that had previously escaped her.

Not a second did she lose, but stealing after the unsuspecting pair with a noiseless and treacherous step, she followed them, foot by foot, through the mazes of the clipped hornbeam labyrinth, divided from them only by the verdant screen, listening to every half-breathed word of love, and drinking in with greedy ears every passionate sigh.

Delawarr's left arm was around Blanche's slender waist, and her right hand rested on his shoulder; the fingers of their other hands were entwined lovingly together, as they wandered onward, wrapped each in the other, unconscious of wrong on their own part, and unsuspicious of injury from any other.

Meanwhile, with rage in her eyes, with hell in her heart, Agnes followed and listened.

So deadly was her hatred, at that moment, of her sister, so fierce and overmastering her rage, that it was only by the utmost exertion of self-control that she could refrain from rushing forward and loading them with reproaches, with contumely, and with scorn.

But biting her lips till the blood sprang beneath her pearly teeth, and clinching her hands so hard that the nails wounded their tender palms, she did refrain, did subdue the swelling fury of her rebellious heart, and awaited the hour of more deadly vengeance.

Vengeance for what? She had not loved George Delawarr—nay, she had scorned him! Blanche had not robbed her of her lover—nay, in her own thoughts, she had carried off the admirer, perhaps the future lover, from the heiress.

She was the wronger, not the wronged! Then wherefore vengeance?

Even, therefore, reader, because she had wronged her, and knew it; because her own conscience smote her, and she would fain avenge on the innocent cause, the pangs which at times rent her own bosom.

Envious and bitter, she could not endure that Blanche should be loved, as she felt she was not loved herself, purely, devotedly, forever, and for herself alone.

Ambitious, and insatiate of admiration, she could not endure that George Delawarr, once her captive, whom she still thought her slave, should shake off his allegiance to herself, much less that he should dare to love her sister.

Even while she listened, she suddenly heard Blanche reply to some words of her lover, which had escaped her watchful ears.

"Never fear, dearest George; I am sure that he has seen and knows all—he is the kindest and the best of fathers. I will tell him all to-morrow, and will have good news for you when you come to see me in the evening."

"Never!" exclaimed the fury, stamping upon the ground violently—"by all my hopes of heaven, never!"

And with the words she darted away in the direction of the hall as fast as her feet could carry her over the level greensward; rage seeming literally to lend her wings, so rapidly did her fiery passions spur her on the road to impotent revenge.

Ten minutes afterward, with his face inflamed with fury, his periwig awry, his dress disordered by the haste with which he had come up, Allan Fitz-Henry broke upon the unsuspecting lovers.

Snatching his daughter rudely from the young man's half embrace, he broke out into a torrent of terrible and furious invective, far more disgraceful to him who used it, than to those on whom it was vented.

There was no check to his violence, no moderation on his tongue. Traitor, and knave, and low-born beggar, were the mildest epithets which he applied to the high-bred and gallant soldier; while on his sweet and shrinking child he heaped terms the most opprobrious, the most unworthy of himself, whether as a father or as a man.

The blood rushed crimson to the brow of George Delawarr, and his hand fell, as if by instinct, upon the hilt of his rapier; but the next moment he withdrew it, and was cool by a mighty effort.

"From you, sir, any thing! You will be sorry for this to-morrow!"

"Never, sir! never! Get you gone! base domestic traitor! Get you gone, lest I call my servants, and bid them spurn you from my premises!"

"I go, sir—" he began calmly; but at this moment St. George came upon the scene, having just returned from Windsor, eager, but, alas! too late, to anticipate the shameful scene—and to him did George Delawarr turn with unutterable anguish in his eyes. "Bid my men bring my horses after me, St. George," said he, firmly, but mournfully; "for me, this is no place any longer. Farewell, sir! you will repent of this. Adieu, Blanche, we shall meet again, sweet one."

"Never! dog, never! or with my own hands—"

"Hush! hush! for shame. Peace, Mister Fitz-Henry, these words are not such as may pass between gentlemen. Go, George, for God's sake! Go, and prevent worse scandal," cried the viscount.

And miserable beyond all comprehension, his dream of bliss thus cruelly cut short, the young man went his way, leaving his mistress hanging in a deep swoon, happy to be for a while unconscious of her misery, upon her father's arm.

Three days had passed—three dark, dismal, hopeless days. Delawarr did his duty with his regiment, nay, did it well—but he was utterly unconscious, his mind was afar off, as of a man walking in a dream. Late on the third night a small note was put into his hands, blistered and soiled with tears. A wan smile crossed his face, he ordered his horses at daybreak, drained a deep draught of wine, sauntered away to his own chamber, stopping at every two or three paces in deep meditation; threw himself on his bed, for the first time in his life without praying, and slept, or seemed to sleep, till daybreak.

Three days had passed—three dark, dismal, hopeless days! Blanche was half dead—for she now despaired. All methods had been tried with the fierce and prejudiced old man, secretly prompted by that demon-girl—and all tried in vain. Poor Blanche had implored him to suffer her to resign her birthright in favor of her sister, who would wed to suit his wishes, but in vain. The generous St. George had offered to purchase for his friend, as speedily as possible, every step to the very highest in the service; nay, he had obtained from the easy monarch a promise to raise him to the peerage, but in vain.

And Blanche despaired; and St. George left the Hall in sorrow and disgust that he could effect nothing.

That evening Blanche's maid, a true and honest girl, delivered to her mistress a small note, brought by a peasant lad; and within an hour the boy went thence, the bearer of a billet, blistered and wet with tears.

And Blanche crept away unheeded to her chamber, and threw herself upon her knees, and prayed fervently and long; and casting herself upon her painful bed, at last wept herself to sleep.

The morning dawned, merry and clear, and lightsome; and all the face of nature smiled gladly in the merry sunbeams.

At the first peep of dawn Blanche started from her restless slumbers, dressed herself hastily, and creeping down the stairs with a cautious step, unbarred a postern door, darted out into the free air, without casting a glance behind her, and fled, with all the speed of mingled love and terror, down the green avenue toward the gay pavilion—scene of so many happy hours.

But again she was watched by an envious eye, and followed by a jealous foot.

For scarce ten minutes had elapsed from the time when she issued from the postern, before Agnes appeared on the threshold, with her dark face livid and convulsed with passion; and after pausing a moment, as if in hesitation, followed rapidly in the footsteps of her sister.

When Blanche reached the summer-house, it was closed and untenanted; but scarcely had she entered and cast open the blinds of one window toward the road, before a hard horse-tramp was heard coming up at full gallop, and in an instant George Delawarr pulled up his panting charger in the lane, leaped to the ground, swung himself up into the branches of the great oak-tree, and climbing rapidly along its gnarled limbs, sprang down on the other side, rushed into the building, and cast himself at his mistress' feet.

Agnes was entering the far end of the elm-tree walk as he sprang down into the little coplanade, but he was too dreadfully preoccupied with hope and anguish, and almost despair, to observe any thing around him.

But she saw him, and fearful that she should be too late to arrest what she supposed to be the lovers' flight, she ran like the wind.

She neared the doorway—loud voices reached her ears, but whether in anger, or in supplication, or in sorrow, she could not distinguish.

Then came a sound that rooted her to the ground on which her flying foot was planted, in mute terror.

The round ringing report of a pistol-shot! and ere its echo had begun to die away, another!

No shriek, no wail, no word succeeded—all was as silent as the grave.

Then terror gave her courage, and she rushed madly forward a few steps, then stood on the threshold horror-stricken.

Both those young souls, but a few days before so happy, so beloved, and so loving, had taken their flight—whither?

Both lay there dead, as they had fallen, but unconvulsed, and graceful even in death. Neither had groaned or struggled, but as they had fallen, so they lay, a few feet asunder—her heart and his brain pierced by the deadly bullets, sped with the accuracy of his never-erring aim.

While she stood gazing, in the very stupor of dread, scarce conscious yet of what had fallen out, a deep voice smote her ear.

"Base, base girl, this is all your doing!" Then, as if wakening from a trance, she uttered a long, piercing shriek, darted into the pavilion between the gory corpses, and flung herself headlong out of the open window into the pool beneath.

But she was not fated so to die. A strong hand dragged her out—the hand of St. George, who, learning that his friend had ridden forth toward Ditton, had followed him, and arrived too late by scarce a minute.

From that day forth Agnes Fitz-Henry was a dull, melancholy maniac. Never one gleam of momentary light dispersed the shadows of her insane horror—never one smile crossed her lip, one pleasant thought relieved her life-long sorrow. Thus lived she; and when death at length came to restore her spirit's light, she died, and made no sign.

Allan Fitz-Henry lived—a moody misanthropic man, shunning all men, and shunned of all. In truth, the saddest and most wretched of the sons of men.

How that catastrophe fell out none ever knew, and it were useless to conjecture.

They were beautiful, they were young, they were happy. The evil days arrived—and they were wretched, and lacked strength to bear their wretchedness. They are gone where ONE alone must judge them—may HE have pity on their weakness. REQUIESCANT!



THE LOST PLEIAD.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

Beautiful sisters! tell me, do you ever Dream of the loved and lost one, she who fell And faded, in love's turbid, crimson river— The sacred secret tell? Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her, And, chanting harmonies, she danced along; Ere Eros in his silken meshes bound her, Her being passed in song.

Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber; Beside her slept her golden-tongued lyre; And radiant visions—fancies without number— Filled breast and brain with fire. She dreamed; and, in her dreams, saw, bending o'er her, A form her fervid fancy deified; And, waking, viewed the noble one before her, Who wooed her as his bride.

What words—what passionate words he breathed, beseeching, Have long been lost in the descending years: Nevertheless she listened to his teaching, Smiling between her tears. And ever since that hour the happy maiden Wanders unknown of any one but Jove; Regretting not the lost Olympian Aidenn In the Elysium—Love!



SUNSET AFTER RAIN.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

All day, with humming and continuous sound, Streaking the landscape, has the slant rain fall'n; But now the mist is vanishing; in the west The dull gray sheet, that shrouded from the sight The sky, is rent in fragments, and rich streaks Of tenderest blue are smiling through the clefts. A dart of sunshine strikes upon the hills, Then melts. The great clouds whiten, and roll off, Until a steady blaze of golden light Kindles the dripping scene. Within the east, The delicate rainbow suddenly breaks out; Soft air-breaths flutter round; each tree shakes down A shower of glittering drops; the woodlands burst Into a chorus of glad harmony; And the rich landscape, full of loveliness, Fades slowly, calmly, sweetly, into night. Thus, sometimes, is the end of Human life. In youth and manhood, sorrows may frown round; But when the sun of Being lowly stoops, The darkness breaks away—the tears are dried; The Christian's hope—a rainbow—brightly glows, And life glides sweet and tranquil to the tomb.



MONTEZUMA MOGGS.

THAT WAS TO BE.

BY THE LATE JOSEPH C. NEAL.

"Now, Moggs—you Moggs—good Moggs—dear Moggs," said his wife, running through the chromatic scale of matrimonial address, and modulating her words and her tones from irritation into tenderness—"yes, Moggs—that's a good soul—I do wish for once you would try to be a little useful to your family. Stay at home to-day, Moggs, can't you, while I do the washing? It would be so pleasant, Moggs—so like old times, to hear you whistling at your work, while I am busy at mine."

And a smile of affection stole across the countenance of Mrs. Moggs, like a stray sunbeam on a cloudy day, breaking up the sharp and fixed lines of care into which her features had settled as a habitual expression, and causing her also to look as she did in the "old times," to which she now so kindly referred.

"Wont you, Moggs?" added she, laying her hand upon his shoulder, "it would be so pleasant, dear—wouldn't it? I should not mind hard work, Moggs, if you were at work near me."

There was a tear, perhaps, twinkling in the eye of the wife, giving gentleness to the hard, stony look which she in general wore, caused by those unceasing troubles of her existence that leave no time for weeping. Perpetual struggle hardens the heart and dries up the source of tears.

"Wont you, Moggs?"

The idea of combined effort was a pleasant family picture to Mrs. Moggs, though it did involve not a little of toil. Still, to her loneliness it was a pleasant picture, accustomed as she had been to strive alone, and continually, to support existence. But it seems that perceptions of the pleasant and of the picturesque in such matters, differ essentially; and Moggs, glancing through the sentimental, and beyond it, felt determined, as he always did, to avoid the trouble which it threatened.

"Can't be," responded Moggs, slightly shrugging his shoulder, as a hint to his wife that the weight of her hand was oppressive. "Can't be," continued he, as he set himself industriously—for in this Moggs was industrious—to the consumption of the best part of the breakfast that was before him—a breakfast that had been, as usual, provided by his wife, and prepared by her, while Montezuma Moggs was fast asleep—an amusement to which, next to eating, Montezuma Moggs was greatly addicted when at home, as demanding the least possible effort and exertion on his part. Montezuma Moggs, you see, was in some respects not a little of an economist; and, as a rule, never made his appearance in the morning until firmly assured that breakfast was quite ready—"'most ready," was too indefinite and vague for Montezuma Moggs—he had been too often tricked from comfort in that way before—people will so impose on one in this respect—envious people, who covet your slumbers—such as those who drag the covering off, or sprinkle water on the unguarded physiognomy. But Moggs took care, in the excess of his caution, that no time should be lost by him in a tedious interval of hungry expectation.

"Say ready—quite ready—and I'll come," muttered he, in that sleepy debate between bed and breakfast which often consumes so much of time; and his eyes remained shut and his mouth open until perfectly assured that all the preliminary arrangements had been completed. "Because," as Moggs wisely observed, "that half hour before breakfast, reflecting on sausages and speculating on coffee, if there is sausages and coffee, frets a man dreadful, and does him more harm than all the rest of the day put together."—Sagacious Moggs!

Besides, Moggs has a great respect for himself—much more, probably, than he has for other people, being the respecter of a person, rather than of persons, and that person being himself. Moggs, therefore, disdains the kindling of fires, splitting wood, and all that, especially of frosty mornings—and eschews the putting on of kettles—well knowing that if an individual is in the way when the aid of an individual is required, there is likely to be a requisition on the individual's services. Montezuma Moggs understood how to "skulk;" and we all comprehend the fact that to "skulk" judiciously is a fine political feature, saving much of wear and tear to the body corporate.

"Mend boots—mind shop—tend baby!—can't be," repeated Moggs, draining the last drop from his cup—"boots, shops and babies must mend, mind and tend themselves—I'm going to do something better than that;" and so Moggs rose leisurely, took his hat, and departed, to stroll the streets, to talk at the corners, and to read the bulletin-boards at the newspaper offices, which, as Moggs often remarks, not only encourages literature, but is also one of the cheapest of all amusements—vastly more agreeable than if you paid for it.

It was a little shop, in one of the poorer sections of the city, where Montezuma Moggs resided with his family—Mrs. Moggs and five juveniles of that name and race—a shop of the miscellaneous order, in which was offered for sale a little, but a very little, of any thing, and every thing—one of those distressed looking shops which bring a sensation of dreariness over the mind, and which cause a sinking of the heart before you have time to ask why you are saddened—a frail and feeble barrier it seems against penury and famine, to yield at the first approach of the gaunt enemy—a shop that has no aspect of business about it, but compels you to think of distraining for rent, of broken hearts, of sickness, suffering and death.

It was a shop, moreover—we have all seen the like—with a bell to it, which rings out an announcement as we open the door, that, few and far between, there has been an arrival in the way of a customer, though it may be, as sometimes happens, that the bell, with all its untuned sharpness, fails to triumph over the din of domestic affairs in the little back-room, which serves for parlor, and kitchen, and hall, and proves unavailing to spread the news against the turbulent clamor of noisy children and a vociferous wife.

But be patient to the last—even if the bell does prove insufficient to attract due attention to your majestic presence, whether you come to make purchases or to avail yourself of the additional proffer made by the sign appertaining to Moggs exclusively, relative to "Boots and shoes mended," collateral to which you observe a work-bench in the corner; still, be patient, and cause the energies of your heel to hold "wooden discourse" with the sanded floor, as emphatically you cry—

"Shop!" and beat with pennies on the counter.

Be patient; for, look ye, Mrs. Moggs will soon appear, with a flushed countenance and a soiled garb—her youngest hope, if a young Moggs is to be called a hope, sobbing loudly on its mother's shoulder, while the unawed pratlers within, carry on the war with increasing violence.

"Shop!"

"Comin'!—what's wanten?" is the sharp and somewhat discourteous reply, as Mrs. Moggs gives a shake of admonition to her peevish little charge, and turns half back to the riotous assemblage in the rear.

Now, we ask it of you as a special favor, that you do not suffer any shadow of offence to arise at the dash of acerbity that may manifest itself in the tones of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs. According to our notion of the world, as it goes, she, and such as she, deserve rather to be honored than to provoke wrath by the defects of an unpolished and unguarded manner. She has her troubles, poor woman—gnawing cares, to which, in all likelihood, yours are but as the gossamer upon the wind, or as the thistle-down floating upon the summer breeze; and if there be cash in your pocket, do not, after having caused such a turmoil, content yourself with simply asking where Jones resides, or Jenkins lives. It would be cruel—indeed it would. True, Mrs. Moggs expects little else from one of your dashing style and elegant appearance. Such a call rarely comes to her but with some profitless query; yet look around at the sparse candies, the withering apples, and the forlorn groceries—specimens of which are affixed to the window-panes in triangular patches of paste and paper—speak they not of poverty? Purchase, then, if it be but a trifle.

Mrs. Moggs, unluckily for herself, is possessed of a husband. Husbands, they say, are often regarded as desirable; and some of them are spoken of as if they were a blessing. But if the opinion of Mrs. Moggs were obtained on that score, it would probably be somewhat different; for be it known that the husband of Mrs. Moggs is of the kind that is neither useful nor ornamental. He belongs to that division which addicts itself mainly to laziness—a species of the biped called husband, which unfortunately is not so rare that we seek for the specimen only in museums. We know not whether Montezuma Moggs was or was not born lazy; nor shall we undertake to decide that laziness is an inherent quality; but as Mrs. Moggs was herself a thrifty, painstaking woman, as women, to their credit be it spoken, are apt to be, her lazy husband, as lazy husbands will, in all such cases, continued to grow and to increase in laziness, shifting every care from his own broad shoulders to any other shoulders, whether broad or narrow, strong or wreak, that had no craven shrinkings from the load, Moggs contenting himself in an indolence which must be seen to be appreciated by those—husbands or wives—who perform their tasks in this great work-shop of human effort with becoming zeal and with conscientious assiduity, regarding laziness as a sin against the great purposes of their being. If this assumption be true, as we suspect it is, Montezuma Moggs has much to answer for; though it is a common occurrence, this falling back into imbecility, if there be any one at hand willing to ply the oar, as too often shown in the fact that the children of the industrious are willing to let their parents work, while the energetic wife has a drag upon her in the shape of a lounging husband.

Yes, Mrs. Moggs belongs to the numerous class of women who have what is well called "a trying time of it." You may recognize them in the street, by their look of premature age—anxious, hollow-eyed, and worn to shadows. There is a whole history in every line of their faces, which tells of unceasing trouble, and their hard, quick movement as they press onward regardless of all that begirts the way, indicates those who have no thought to spare from their own immediate necessities, for comment upon the gay and flaunting world. Little does ostentation know, as it flashes by in satined arrogance and jeweled pride, of the sorrow it may jostle from its path; and perhaps it is happy for us as we move along in smiles and pleasantness, not to comprehend that the glance which meets our own comes from the bleakness of a withered heart—withered by penury's unceasing presence.

Moggs is in fault—ay, Montezuma Moggs—what, he "mend boots, mind shop, tend baby," bringing down his lofty aspirations for the future to be cabined within the miserable confines of the present!

"Hard work?" sneers Moggs—"yes, if a man sets himself down to hard work, there he may set—nothing else but hard work will ever come to him—but if he wont do hard work, then something easier will be sure to come toddlin' along sooner or later. What can ever find you but hard work if you are forever in the shop, a thumpin' and a hammerin'? Good luck never ventures near lap-stones and straps. I never saw any of it there in the whole course of my life; and I'm waitin' for good luck, so as to be ready to catch it when it comes by."

Montezuma Moggs had a turn for politics; and for many a year he exhibited great activity in that respect, believing confidently that good luck to himself might grow from town-meetings and elections; and you may have observed him on the platform when oratory addressed the "masses," or on the election ground with a placard to his button, and a whole handfull of tickets. But his luck did not seem to wear that shape; and politically, Montezuma Moggs at last took his place in the "innumerable caravan" of the disappointed. And thus, in turn, has he courted fortune in all her phases, without a smile of recognition from the blinded goddess. The world never knows its noblest sons; and Montezuma Moggs was left to sorrow and despair.

Could he have been honored with a lofty commission, Montezuma Moggs might have set forth to a revel in the halls of his namesake; but as one of the rank and file, he could not think of it. And in private conversation with his sneering friend Quiggens, to whose captiousness and criticism Moggs submitted, on the score of the cigars occasionally derivable from that source, he ventured the subjoined remarks relative to his military dispositions:

"What I want," said Moggs, "is a large amount of glory, and a bigger share of pay—a man like me ought to have plenty of both—glory, to swagger about with, while the people run into the street to stare at Moggs, all whiskers and glory—and plenty of pay, to make the glory shine, and to set it off. I wouldn't mind, besides, if I did have a nice little wound or two, if they've got any that don't hurt much, so that I might have my arm in a sling, or a black patch on my countenance. But if I was only one of the rank and file, I'm very much afraid I might have considerable more of knocks that would hurt a great deal, than I should of either the pay or the glory—that's what troubles me in the milentary way. But make me a gineral, and then, I'll talk to you about the matter—make me a gineral ossifer, with the commission, and the feathers, and the cocked-hat—plenty of pay, and a large slice of rations—there's nothing like rations—and then I'll talk to you like a book. Then I'll pledge you my lives, and my fortunes, and my sacred honors—all of 'em—that I will furnish the genus whenever it is wanted—genus in great big gloves, monstrous long boots, and astride of a hoss that scatters the little boys like Boston, whenever I touch the critter with my long spurs, to astonish the ladies. Oh, get out!—do you think I couldn't play gineral and look black as thunder, for such pay as ginerals get? I'd do it for half the money, and I'd not only do it cheaper, but considerable better than you ever see it done the best Fourth of July you ever met with. At present, I know I've not much rations, and no money at all—money's skurse—but as for genus—look at my eye—isn't genus there?—observation my nose—isn't it a Boneyparte?—aint I sevagerous about the mouth?—I tell you, Quiggens, there's whole lots of a hero in this little gentleman. I've so much genus that I can't work. When a man's genus is a workin' in his upper story, and mine always is, then his hands has to be idle, so's not to interrupt his genus."

"Yes," responded Quiggens, who is rather of the satirical turn, as one is likely to be who has driven the "Black Maria," and has thus found out that the world is all a fleeting show; "yes, you've got so much genus in your upper story that it has made a hole in the crown of your hat, so it can see what sort of weather is going on out of doors—and it's your genus, I reckon, that's peeping out of your elbows. Why don't you ask your genus to patch your knees, and to mend the holes in your boots?"

"Quiggens, go 'way, Quiggens—you're of the common natur', Quiggens—a vulgar fraction, Quiggens; and you can't understand an indiwidooal who has a mind inside of his hat, and a whole soul packed away under his jacket. You'll never rise, a flutterin' and a ringin' like a bald-headed eagle—men like you have got no wings, and can only go about nibblin' the grass, while we fly up and peck cherries from the trees. I'm always thinkin' on what I'm going to be, and a preparin' myself for what natur' intended, though I don't know exactly what it is yet. But I don't believe that sich a man as Montezuma Moggs was brought into the world only to put patches on shoes and to heel-tap people's boots. No, Quiggens—no—it can't be, Quiggens. But you don't understand, and I'll have to talk to my genus. It's the only friend I have."

"Why don't you ask your genus to lend you a fip then, or see whether it's got any cigars to give away," replied Quiggs contemptuously, as he walked up the street, while Moggs, in offended majesty, stalked sulkily off in another direction.

"I would go somewheres, if I only knew where to go to," soliloquized Moggs, as he strolled slowly along the deserted streets; "but when there's nowheres to go to, then I suppose a person must go home—specially of cold nights like this, when the thermometer is down as far as Nero, and acts cruel on the countenance. It's always colder, too, when there's nobody about but yourself—you get your own share and every body else's besides; and it's lucky if you're not friz. Why don't they have gloves for people's noses? I ought to have a carriage—yes, and horses—ay, and a colored gemman to drive 'em, to say nothing of a big house warmed all over, with curtains to the windows. And why haven't I? Isn't Montezuma Moggs as good as anybody—isn't he as big—as full of genus? It's cold now, a footin' it round. But I'll wait—perhaps there's a good time comin', boys—there must be a good time, for there isn't any sort of times in the place where they keep time, which can be worse times than these times. But here's home—here's where you must go when you don't know what to do with yourself. Whenever a man tells you he has nowheres to go to, or says he's goin' nowheres, that man's a crawlin' home, because he can't help it. Well, well—there's nothin' else to be did, and so somebody must turn out and let me in home."

It appeared, however, that Montezuma Moggs erred in part in this calculation. It is true enough that he knocked and knocked for admission at the door of his domicile; but the muscular effort thus employed seemed to serve no other purpose than that of exercise. Tired with the employment of his hands in this regard, Moggs resorted to his feet—then tried his knee, and anon his back, after the usual desperate variety of such appeal resorted to by the "great locked out," when they become a little savage or so at the delay to which they are subjected. Sometimes, also, he would rap fiercely, and then apply his eye to the key-hole, as if to watch for the effect of his rapping. "I don't see 'em," groaned he. And then again, his ear would be placed against the lock—"I don't hear 'em either." There were moments when he would frantically kick the door, and then rush as frantically to the middle of the street, to look at the windows; but no sign of animation from within peered forth to cheer him. After full an hour of toil and of hope deferred, Montezuma Moggs tossed his arms aloft in despair—let them fall listlessly at his side, and then sat down upon the curb-stone to weep, while the neighbors looked upon him from their respective windows; a benevolent few, not afraid of catching cold, coming down to him with their condolements. None, however, offered a resting place to the homeless, unsheltered and despairing Moggs.

In the course of his musings and mournings, as he sat chattering with cold, a loosened paving-stone arrested his attention; and, with the instinct of genius, which catches comfort and assistance from means apparently the most trivial, and unpromising in their aspect, the paving-stone seemed to impart an idea to Montezuma Moggs, in this "his last and fearfulest extremity." Grappling this new weapon in both his hands, he raised it and poised it aloft.

"I shall make a ten-strike now," exclaimed he, as he launched the missile at the door with herculean force, and himself remained in classic attitude watching the effect of the shot, as the door groaned, and creaked, and splintered under the unwonted infliction. Still, however, it did not give way before this application of force, though the prospect was encouraging. The observers laughed—Moggs chuckled—the dogs barked louder than before; and indeed it seemed all round as if a new light had been cast upon the subject.

"Hongcore!" cried somebody.

"I will," said Moggs, preparing to demonstrate accordingly.

"Stop there," said the voice of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs, as she raised the window, "if you hongcore the door of this 'ere house again, I'll call the watch, to see what he thinks of such doings, I will. And now, once for all, you can't come in here to-night."

"Can't, indeed!—why can't I?—not come into my own house! Do you call this a free country, on the gineral average, if such rebellions are to be tolerated?"

"Your house, Mr. Moggs—yours?—who pays the rent, Moggs—who feeds you and the children, Moggs—who finds the fire and every thing else? Tell us that?"

This was somewhat of the nature of a home-thrust, and Moggs, rather conscience-stricken, was dumb-founded and appalled. Moggs was very cold, and therefore, for the time being, deficient in his usual pride and self-esteem, leaving himself more pervious to the assault of reproach from without and within, than he would have been in a more genial state of the atmosphere. No man is courageous when he is thoroughly chilled; and it had become painfully evident that this was not a momentary riot, but an enduring revolution, through the intermedium of a civil war.

"Ho, ho!" faintly responded Moggs, though once more preparing to carry the citadel by storm, "I'll settle this business in a twinkling."

Splash!

Any thing but cold water in quantity at a crisis like this. Who could endure a shower-bath under such ungenial circumstances? Not Priessnitz himself. It is not, then, to be wondered at that Montezuma Moggs now quailed, having nothing in him of the amphibious nature.

"Water is cheap, Mr. Moggs; and you'd better take keer. There's several buckets yet up here of unkommon cold water, all of which is at your service without charge—wont ask you nothin', Moggs, for your washin'; and if you're feverish, may be it will do you good."

Everybody laughed, as you know everybody will, at any other body's misfortune or disaster. Everybody laughed but Moggs, and he shivered.

"I'll sattinly ketch my death," moaned he; "I'll be friz, standing straight up, like a big icicle; or if I fall over when I'm friz, the boys will slide on me as they go to school, and call it fun as they go whizzing over my countenance with nails in their shoes, scratching my physimohogany all to pieces. They tell me that being friz is an easy death—that you go to sleep and don't know nothing about it. I wish they'd get their wives to slouse 'em all over with a bucket of water, on sich a night as this, and then try whether it is easy. Call being friz hard an easy thing! I'd rather be biled any time. What shill I do—what shill I do?"

"Perhaps they'll put you in an ice-house, and kiver you up with tan till summer comes—you'd be good for something then, which is more nor you are now," observed Mrs. Moggs from the window.

"Quit twitting a man with his misfortunes," whined Montezuma, of the now broken-heart.

"Why, my duck!"

"Y-e-e-s—y-e-e-s! that's it—I am a duck, indeed! but by morning I'll be only a snow-ball—the boys will take my head for a snow-ball. What shill I do—I guvs up, and I guvs in."

"Well, I'll tell you, Montezuma Moggs, what you must do to be thawed. Promise me faithfully only to work half as hard as I do, and you may come to the fire—the ten-plate stove is almost red-hot. Promise to mend boots, mind shop, and tend baby; them's the terms—that's the price of admission."

Hard terms, certainly—the severest of terms—but then hard terms, and severe terms, are good terms, if no other terms are to be had. One must do the best he can in this world, if it be imperative upon him to do something, as it evidently was in Moggs' case.

"I promise," shivered Moggs.

"Promise what?"

"T-t-to tend baby, m-m-mind shop, and m-m-mend boots;" and the vanquished Moggs sank down exhausted, proving, beyond the possibility of doubt, that cold water, when skillfully applied of a cold night, is the sovereignest thing on earth for the cure of "genus" in its lazier branches.

It is but justice, however, to state, that Moggs kept his word faithfully, in which he contradicted the general expectation, which, with reason enough in the main, places but little reliance on promises; and he became, for him, quite an industrious person. His wife's buckets served as a continual remembrancer. But Mrs. Moggs never exulted over his defeat; and, though once compelled to harshness, continued to be to Montezuma a most excellent wife. The shop looks lively now—and the bell to the door is removed; for Moggs, with his rat-tat-tat, is ever at his post, doing admired execution on the dilapidated boots and shoes. The Moggses prosper, and all through the efficacy of a bucket of cold water. We should not wonder if, in the end, the Moggs family were to become rich, through the force of industry, and without recourse to "genus."

"Politics and me has shuck hands forever," said the repentant Moggs. "I've been looking out and expecting loaves and fishes long enough. Loaves, indeed! Why I never got even a cracker, unless it was aside of the ear, when there was a row on the election ground; and as for fishes, why, if I'd stopped any longer for them to come swimming up to my mouth, all ready fried, with pepper on 'em, I wouldn't even have been decent food for fishes myself. I never got a nibble, let alone a bite; but somebody else always cotch'd the fish, and asked me to carry 'em home for them. Fact is, if people wont wote for me, I wont wote for people. And as for the milentary line, I give up in a gineral way, all idea of being a gineral ossifer. Bonyparte is dead, and if my milentary genus was so great that I couldn't sleep for it, who'd hunt me up and put me at the head of affairs? No, if I'm wanted for any thing, they'll have to call me. I've dodged about winkin' and noddin' as long as the country had any right to expect, and now—rat-tat-tat—I'm going to work for myself."

It was a wise conclusion on the part of Moggs, who may, perchance, in this way, be a "gineral" yet.



THE BRIDE'S CONFESSION.

BY ALICE G. LEE.

A sudden thrill passed through my heart, Wild and intense—yet not of pain— I strove to quell quick, bounding throbs, And scanned the sentence o'er again. It might have been full idly penned By one whose thoughts from love were free, And yet as if entranced I read "Thou art most beautiful to me."

Thou didst not whisper I was loved— There were no gleams of tenderness, Save those my trembling heart would hope That careless sentence might express. But while the blinding tears fell fast, Until the words I scarce could see, There shone, as through a wreathing mist, "Thou art most beautiful to me."

To thee! I cared not for all eyes So I was beautiful in thine! A timid star, my faint, sad beams Upon thy path alone should shine. Oh what was praise, save from thy lips— And love should all unheeded be So I could hear thy blessed voice Say—"Thou art beautiful to me."

And I have heard those very words— Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze— Though thou, perchance, hadst quite forgot They had been said in by-gone days. While clasped hand, and circling arm, Drew me nearer still to thee— Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear "Thou, love, art beautiful to me."

And, dearest, though thine eyes alone May see in me a single grace— I care not so thou e'er canst find A hidden sweetness in my face. And if, as years and cares steal on, Even that lingering light must flee, What matter! if from thee I hear "Thou art still beautiful to me!"



SONNET TO NIGHT.

Oh! look, my love, as over seas and lands Comes shadowy Night, with dew, and peace, and rest; How every flower clasps its folded hands And fondly leans apon her faithful breast. How still, how calm, is all around us now, From the high stars to these pale buds beneath— Calm, as the quiet on an infant's brow Rocked to deep slumber in the lap of death. Oh! hush—move not—it is a holy hour And this soft nurse of nature, bending low, Lists, like the sinless pair in Eden's bower, For angels' pinions waving to and fro— Oh, sacred Night! what mysteries are thine Graven in stars upon thy page divine. GRETTA.



PAULINE DUMESNIL.

OR A MARRIAGE DE CONVENANCE.

BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.

The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill A perfect woman, nobly planned. WORDSWORTH.

In a large but somewhat scantily furnished apartment sat two young girls, in such earnest and apparently serious conversation that, but for their youthful and blooming countenances, one might have fancied them bending beneath the cares and sorrows of age. On the dark old table between them rested a magnificent work-box, whose rich implements they had been busily and skillfully using; but now the scissors and thread lay at their feet, their needles were dropped, and the younger of the two sat with clasped hands, while her companion's low tones appeared to awaken every emotion of her heart.

On the old-fashioned French bedstead were thrown dresses of various hues and expensive stuffs, while one only, a robe of the most delicate material, its graceful folds looped with orange flowers, seemed to attract the attention of the fair, fragile being, whose attitude was one of intense suffering. Her bright hopes had faded at sight of that colorless garb, and the bridal wreath was to wither on her brow! What to her sad soul were the costly things before her? The jewels that sparkled on their snow-white satin case, the long fairy veil of beautiful lace that lay side by side with the bridal dress?

Her companion continued speaking, and she bowed her face upon those clasped hands, while her slight frame shook with its contending emotions. A few moments more and she raised her head. She was pale, and her large, dark eyes dilated into fearful size. At length the big drops came slowly down her cheek, and she was able to speak.

"No more, Angela, no more! You love me, I know; but what you have done to day was no act of friendship. You have troubled the dark waters of my soul until they have become a torrent over which I have no control."

"And it is because I love you, Pauline, that I have made your future life manifest to you. Do not seek to make a merit of obedience to your proud mother's will. It is because you have been taught to fear her, that you have consented to perjure yourself, and marry a man you cannot love."

"For the love of heaven, spare me!" cried the girl, shrinking from her friend's words, "Is it to triumph over me that you thus seek to move me?"

Her friend gazed mournfully upon her, and rising from her seat, gently put her arm around her.

"My poor Pauline! my dear Pauline!" murmured she, "I have been cruel—forgive me."

Her answer was a fervent embrace—and throwing their arms round one another, they wept in silence.

At this moment the door opened, and a lady entered. She was tall and majestic, but there was an expression of pride and extreme hauteur on her countenance. She wore a handsome but faded dress, and the somewhat high-crowned cap bespoke a love of former fashions. She had a foreign air, and when she addressed her daughter, it was in French.

"How is this!" cried she, angrily. "What scenes are these, Pauline? As often as I enter your room I find you in tears. Is it to your advice, Mademoiselle Percy, that my daughter owes her red eyes?"

Angela was about to reply, but Pauline waved her back.

"Is it, then, a crime to weep, mamma? If there were no tears, the heart would break."

"It is a crime, Pauline, to resist the will of your mother, when she has provided for your happiness in a manner suitable to your rank and birth. It is a crime to break the fifth commandment, which tells you to honor and obey your mother."

"And have I not done both," cried Pauline, indignantly. "Have you not sold my happiness? Have you not bartered perhaps my eternal welfare, that I might lay my aching head upon the downy pillows of the rich, that you might see me a wretched slave, writhing under chains not the less heavy because they are of gold?"

"Have you been reading Racine this morning? Or have you been studying for the stage?" said Madame Dumesnil, in a cold, scornful tone. "You are a good actress, certainly."

Pauline sank upon a chair, and her friend stood beside her, pressing her trembling hand. Her mother advanced and stood before her.

"We will have no more of this, Pauline. If I feel satisfied that my duty is done, you should rejoice in obeying me. I alone am the judge in this matter—children should ever be contented with allowing their parents to act for them; and allow me to say, that any interference of strangers upon an occasion like this, is exceedingly misplaced."

This was aimed at Angela Percy; but she only replied by a wondering and mournful gaze to the stern, cold woman before her. The old lady proceeded.

"Bathe your eyes, Pauline, and arrange your hair. Monsieur de Vaissiere is below. Perhaps," added she, with a sneer, "perhaps that Miss Percy will assist you in entertaining your lover."

Pauline started and shuddered, but by this time she had again yielded to her mother's influence. Going to the glass, she smoothed her dark hair, and endeavored to abate the swelling of her eyes. Bidding farewell to her friend, she descended to the parlor, where her affianced husband awaited her.

He was tall, and his appearance distingue; but he, too, looked stern and cold as he rose to meet that young creature, whose nineteen summers were more than doubled by his years. He was handsome also; but where was the youthful ardor that should have been roused at the idea of winning that fair girl's love? Where were the sunny hopes to meet hers, the dreams of the future that he wanted? His willingness to accept the sacrifice was no proof of his gentleness; and the cheek of his betrothed grew pale, and her hand was cold, as he led her to a seat.

Pauline had been bred to the hard forcing-school of the ancien regime. Her mother had left France on the terrible death of her beloved queen, Marie Antoinette, and had passed from the high post of dame d'honneur, to poverty and exile in America. The sale of her magnificent jewels and massive silver, had enabled her to lease an old roomy mansion, deserted by its owners, and to live in peace and retirement. Here, with the recollection of the horrors of the revolution fresh within her memory, while her heart was still bleeding with the wounds it had received; while she still had before her the mangled remains of her sovereigns—the bleeding head of her husband, torn from her in the days of their early love; in the midst of these agonizing thoughts, she gave birth to a posthumous child—the heroine of our story. Clasping her babe to her breast, Madame Dumesnil bitterly recalled the many plans of happiness her murdered husband had made in anticipation of its coming—his affection for her—his anxiety for her safety—their parting, and the subsequent news of his execution. Those lips were mute whose words of tenderness were to soothe her in her hour of suffering; that hand was cold that would have rested on her brow; that heart was still that would have bounded with a father's love at sight of the tiny, helpless creature that lay upon her arm.

Madame Dumesnil, the young, the lovely, and the gentle, became silent, reserved, and harsh. Nothing could swerve her from a determination made, and with feelings of the deepest parental affection for her daughter, she had crushed and broken her spirit in the sweet spring-time of her childhood.

From the time Pauline was old enough to form a desire, she learned to hear it opposed. "Une petite fille attend qu'on lui donne se qui lui faut," was the invariable reply to all her childish longings. According to the old French system, every slight offence was followed by her mother's "Allez vous coucher, mademoiselle;" so that half her life was spent in bed, while she lay awake with the bright, broad daylight around her, the hour when other children are strengthening their little limbs in the active enjoyment of God's free, fresh air.

As she grew older, she was taught that "une demoiselle bien elevee n'a pas d'opinions," that her parents judged and decided for her; and while she sat erect upon a high stool, accomplishing her daily tasks in silence, her heart nearly burst with the pent-up feelings of her young imagination. Wherever she went her mother's old waiting-woman was behind her. "Miss Pauline, hold yourself straight; Miss Pauline, turn out your feet—your head, mademoiselle—your arms!" Poor girl! she was well-nigh distracted with these incessant admonitions.

In her walks she met Angela Percy and her father. They had lately settled in the neighborhood, and having no acquaintances, gladly made advances to the timid Pauline. Nothing daunted by her shyness and reserve, Angela, some years her senior, persevered, and overcame it. She was an enthusiastic, high-minded girl, and soon pointed out to her companion new views and new ideas of the world from which she had been excluded. The intimacy was formed ere Madame Dumesnil could prevent it, and at the instances of old Jeannette, who begged that Mademoiselle Pauline might have a friend of her own age—some one to talk to, besides two old women, she consented to allow the friendship to continue, provided Jeannette were present at every interview. This was easily promised, but the nurse's stiff limbs were no match for the agile supple ones of her young charges. Day by day she loitered behind, while Pauline and Angela, with their arms entwined, continued in eager and undisturbed enjoyment of one another's society. Jeannette remarked a glow upon her young lady's cheek, and a light in her eye—new charms in her hitherto pale, resigned countenance; and, wiser than her mistress, concluded that the acquisition of a youthful friend was fast pouring happiness into her lonely heart.

Three years passed in this pleasant intercourse, when the monotony of their lives was broken by the arrival of an old friend of Madame Dumesnil—a Monsieur de Vaissiere. When they had last met, she was in the morning of her beauty and bliss, he a handsome youth, for whom many a fair one had sighed, and in vain—as he was still unmarried. What a change! He could not recognize the lovely young countess, whose marriage had been attended with so much eclat—so many rejoicings; nor could she see one vestige of the blooming countenance, the delicate profile, and the jet-black wavy locks that once shaded his fair, open brow. But these works of time were soon forgotten, and the desire of the proud, harsh mother was accomplished when, after a few weeks, M. de Vaissiere proposed for the hapless Pauline. Unconsciously, but with the thoughtlessness of selfishness, Madame Dumesnil sacrificed her child to her prejudices. M. de Vaissiere's opinions and hers were the same; their admiration of le vieux systeme—their fond recollection of the unfortunate monarch, whose weakness they had never reproached him with, even in their secret souls—their abhorrence of Bonaparte—their contempt for la noblesse Napoleonne—their upturned noses at their adopted countrymen, les Americains—their want of faith in hearts and love—the sinecure-ism of young people—their presumption—their misfortune being that they were young and not born old—and finally, the coincidence of opinions wherein both looked upon the white-headed suitor as a most eligible husband for the young, the blooming, the beautiful Pauline.

M. de Vaissiere settled a dot upon his fiancee, and ordered a trousseau and a corbeille, not forgetting the cachemire. The preliminaries were arranged, the day hinted at, and Pauline was informed with a flourish of trumpets that her destiny was fixed.

She listened to her mother's rhapsodies over the admirable parti Providence had enabled her to provide for her child in the wilderness of America; she heard her enlarge upon her own excellence as a parent, of the favor she had conferred upon her in bringing her into the world; of her consequent obligations, and the gratitude she owed her mother when she recollected that not content with giving her life, she had clothed, fed, and supported her until now. All this Pauline received in a silence that resembled stupor; but when M. de Vaissiere was again mentioned, she fell, with a scream of terror, at her mother's feet.

In vain she wept and entreated; in vain she protested against the disparity of age, the utter want of congeniality, the absence of all affection, Madame Dumesnil was too much incensed to reply. With a gesture that Pauline well understood, (for it was used to express maledictions of every description,) she left the room, and locking the door, kept her daughter prisoner for the rest of the day.

She treated this resistance to her will as one of the unhappy consequences of living in a republican country. She suspected Angela of communicating American ideas of independence to her daughter, and would have added to her wretchedness by forbidding further intercourse between the two friends. But Jeannette again interfered; she knew that Pauline's doom was sealed, and that it would be more than cruel to deprive her of the companion she loved. She herself carried the note that conveyed the intelligence of Pauline's coming fate to the indignant Angela, and extended her walks that her poor young lady might derive what consolation she could from her friend's willing sympathy. Many were the tears she shed, many the sighs that burst from her oppressed heart, as the poor old creature followed behind them. Once she had summoned courage sufficient to expostulate with her mistress upon the cruelty of her conduct to her daughter; but she was haughtily dismissed.

Every effort had been made, and at length Angela appealed to Pauline. She entreated her to be more firm, and to declare her resolution never to marry where she could not love.

"Rouse yourself, Pauline—the misery of a lifetime is before you, and it is not yet too late."

"I have done every thing, Angela," said Pauline, despairingly. "My doom is sealed, and I must bend to my bitter fate. I would fly, but that I could not survive my mother's curse."

"The curse of the unrighteous availeth naught," replied her friend, solemnly. "Were you wrongfully opposing your mother's will, mine would be the last voice to uphold you; but now your very soul is at stake."