Those who had been born and brought up under the shadow of this ominous establishment, must have known many a tale of sorrow and woe that owed its origin to that vile ground-floor.

I discovered, on closer scrutiny, that some faded letters across the dirty lamp, intimated to the general public that this was the "Ace of Spades." And in the money-till of the Ace of Spades, doubtless was the price of many a poor man's toil, the bread and meat of his hungry children squandered and sacrificed with a fiendish recklessness. Within the dingy walls of the Ace of Spades was bartered the domestic happiness of many a home that had been cheerless enough, God knows, without this extra curse.

I shivered as I passed it by, to think that amid such haunts of misery and starvation, a place like this could flourish, growing fat upon the life-blood of famishing humanity, and a pity that is akin to a most contemptuous hatred swelled my breast, when I asked myself: What sort of being presides over this soul-trap? Can it be rational? Can it have a soul? Can it ever understand what even animal sympathy is?

The gold that is stolen from the rich man's coffers has some claim to respectability, over these ill-gotten coins that are so many mouthfuls of bread snatched from the jaws of perishing hunger.

I turned away feeling sick at heart, and directed my vagrant steps towards home. All the pomp and glory of the world's wealth were dimmed and darkened before my eyes by this huge black shadow of penury and suffering, that had darted across my way at that moment. If such thoughts as these could be ever with us, if such vivid reminders of the shallowness and vanity of earth's transient splendors would abide with us constantly, how paltry would our idolized and coveted honors appear, and how much more profitable would our wasted energies become! But our minds are frivolous, and easily distracted from great pursuits by petty, external circumstances. We become too readily absorbed in the study of our own selves, and those elements of experience that may yield us pleasure or pain during our sojourn among mortal men. Very often our own instability of purpose annoys and discourages us. Our spirit has desired the accomplishment of one thing, but our contrary flesh has silenced these better demands in gratifying its own caprice. It takes us a very long time to learn the danger of trusting our fallible natures too far. The man who goes forward to defy temptation, telling himself he will not fall, is running down towards a steep precipice, and has not the power of self-control when he reaches the critical point.

I was faithful to my wholesome meditation while I sauntered back alone through the busy streets. When I raised my eyes to look upon glittering carriages, bearing beauty and ease and comfort along the highway, I said to myself in all sincerity, What will it avail them in the end?

But, gentle reader, if I have found fault with the weakness of human nature, and censured its infidelity to noble purposes, it is because I have taught myself the realization. Think you, I have stood where my brothers and sisters have fallen? or have been much the better for knowing so well where the straight path of duty lies?

When I entered the house of my friend I left the best part of my new convictions upon the threshold, and bounded up the stairway with as light a step as if life's darkest phases were unheard of mysteries to me.

Hortense was still lying on the lounge, and the curtains were still drawn, but her eyes were wide open, and the rosy warmth of a recent happy slumber lay on each delicate cheek.

I crept softly towards her, lest perhaps I should find her dozing, but her sleep had not left a languid trace behind. She looked up at me with a bright smile, saying,

"Oh, you naughty truant, where have you been?"

"I went for a little walk," I answered, stooping over her and kissing her brow. "I saw you were sleeping, and having nothing to do, I took a fancy to explore the town. Have you been awake long?"

"Oh, yes! for hours!" she said playfully. "I have counted my fingers about a dozen times. I have discovered that that picture between the windows hangs to one side, and the table-cover is longer at the back than in the front. That bottle casts a shadow just like a man's face and—"

"Oh, come!" I broke in, "you are improvising as you go along. You would not look so rosy and good-humored if you had been lying awake all that time. You will not make me believe such ponderous fibs," I added, throwing my hat and parasol wearily on the bed.

"You are quite too cute, Amey," she answered, rising slowly and taking my arm affectionately, "in fact you are a genius my dear," she added in a pompous tone.

"So they all tell me," I retorted quietly, "and yet I feel very much like other people."

"Well, you are not like other people, indeed you are not!" she exclaimed earnestly. "If you were I would never have liked you."

"Don't you like 'other people'?"

"Not generally, some other people I do, but not all Mon Dieu! non pas tous !" she added, shaking her head emphatically and looking abstractedly before her.

The current of her thought must have changed suddenly, for she raised her face with a bright expression upon it now and said

"Let us do something—something to keep us alive—What shall it be?"

"We might drink your cod liver oil," I suggested; "it is recommended for that purpose, is it not?"

"How smart you are Miss Hampden!" she exclaimed. "Well, I will leave all that sport to yourself, it has no charm for me, I know," she then cried, interrupting herself, "let us go to your room, and you will show me all your pretty things. I have not seen anything since you came, such a prisoner as I have been."

"I hope you will feel repaid," I said, putting one arm tenderly around her frail waist, and leading her out, "but I have not much to show you, Hortense."

We repaired to my room at the other end of the corridor, and Hortense, seating herself on a pile of pillows on the floor, insisted on being shown all the new jewellery and trinkets that had been bestowed on me when I "came out."

This trivial circumstance is, I am fully conscious, quite enough to provoke the blandest of smiles from masculine lips.

"Such a paltry distraction for sensible people!" I hear them utter. So be it; we will not dispute the point in our own favor, but we will confess that whether it reflect or not upon the tone and dignity of our leading tastes, there is an undeniable gratification for every woman in the contemplation of another's wardrobe or jewel-box. It is a rest for our eyes that are wearied of gazing upon our own familiar belongings, to search among the novel trinkets of a friend. We like to touch them, to hold them, to try them in our ears, or on our fingers, or to twine them around our wrists, not that we covet them either, for a moment's inspection gratifies us, and we tire of them quickly.

It is an inherent peculiarity I dare say, and most certainly a harmless one. We all have it to some extent. I will admit that it has its abuses like all other innocent things, that it is often a powerful channel for individual venom and an incentive to the emptiest vanity. There are women I know, who buy bonnets on purpose to vex Mrs. Jones, their rival neighbor, and I have seen Mrs. Parvenue, time and again, indulging a magnificent caprice with some rare luxury, upon which straitened aristocracy was bestowing covetous and admiring glances. Our daily observations confirm the fact that feather brained protegees of fortune, expend much wealth, and flaunt much finery for the passive pleasure of being looked at with wonder by a struggling gentility; and the essence of their gratification, virtually lies in the consciousness that they are provoking a scrutiny, at least, from better-bred people not in possession of such solid wealth as affords them these material comforts.

All this however is an abuse, the offspring of most sordid and contemptible motives. It is the unmistakable brand of the plebeian, and compromises the one who favors it, beyond amendment. It is well to mention it, however, for there are persons of limited observation, and there must needs be persons of a limited experience at all times who, for want of knowing the whole truth, will be tempted to pass a comprehensive general verdict where a particular one only is deserved. It is the misfortune of good to be counterfeited by a simpering evil which works its wonders among the uninitiated, and for this reason, it is not injudicious to openly discuss both sides of a question before adopting a partiality for either one.

When however as in our case, the pleasure is equally divided between the owner of the fine things and the one who appreciates them, there is a possibility of spending a very happy hour in their inspection. When one is free, as I was, to take up each pretty trinket separately and tell its little story to an attentive ear and a sympathetic heart, the circumstance becomes quite propitious for an interchange of friendly confidences, as we shall see.

I had opened and closed more than a dozen jewel-cases. I had revealed to my friend's devouring gaze, my newest acquisitions in silver and gold, and how earnestly she had admired them all. It was refreshing to me to watch her as she clasped my bracelets on her slender wrists, and hung my ear rings from her delicate little ears; now exclaiming over the novelty of one, now listening eagerly to the whispered account about another. At last we had emptied out the great box that held all these little cases of morocco and plush, and putting them back one by one, I turned the tiny key in its tiny lock, and opening my trunk lodged it safely inside. Hortense was sitting beside me still, pouring out a volley of impulsive praise upon what I had just shown her, and as I raised the lid of my trunk, with the privilege of an intimate friend she leaned over and peeped curiously in.

"What is in that red case there Amey?" she asked half timidly, then looking apologetically into my face added: "You see my curiosity is not satisfied yet."

"That is my ivory-covered prayer-book I told you of," said I, drawing it from its seclusion and laying it in her lap. "I seldom use it, it is too showy."

"It is very handsome" she muttered under her breath. "From your father," she continued, speaking to herself, "a Christmas gift. How lovely!"

She put it gently back in its padded holder, and returned it to me. Then peeping into the open trunk once more she said

"Don't be cross, old woman, I want to know all your things, so that I could recognize them any where again. I like them, chiefly because they belong to you. What is in that Japanese box over there?"

"Oh, that is not worth showing you," I said, with a smile of ridicule. "I keep all my odds and ends there, broken and old-fashioned trinkets. It is a very uninteresting heap, I assure you."

"I don't care," she persisted obstinately. "You must let me see them. I like old broken stuff, it will be a change from all the finery I have been feasting on."

"Well, if you will, you will I suppose, you tantalising child!" I exclaimed in mock resignation, dragging out the shabby receptacle upon which lingered the faint outlines of Japanese ladies in brilliant costumes.

"I hope you will like the contents," I remarked derisively, handing her the box. "While you are improving your mind studying them, I shall just restore some order to these dilapidated quarters," I said, as I turned around towards my neglected dressing table that was reduced to a most confusing state of chaos.

The fragments rattled and clinked awhile between her busy fingers, and then were silent. I was so occupied with my new purpose that I did not notice the stillness at first, but suddenly I looked around in questioning scrutiny. The box lay on the floor beside her, unheeded. Between her fingers was some small, shining thing, upon which her eyes were fastened greedily. While I stood watching her, she turned her head slowly round and in a quiet, almost supplicating, tone said,

"Amey, come here."

I went and knelt beside her, laying one arm fondly around her neck.

"What do you want?" I asked, hardly noticing what she held in one slender palm.

"Where did you get this Amey? Do you mind telling me?"

She looked up into my face as she spoke, with such pleading sorrowful eyes, that I snatched the trinket impulsively from her and turned it over in my own hand.

It was the forgotten locket I had found in the library on that March afternoon before the Merivales' musical. A change passed over my own face at sight of it, and it was with some agitation I answered Hortense's timid question:

"It is a strange thing how you came by this. I have never seen it but once, the night I found it, until now."

"You found it then," she murmured slowly with her eyes still buried in my face. "Have you ever opened it?"

I laughed dryly and said, "It is a queer thing, isn't it, but I never have."

"Open it now," she interrupted seriously. I took it between my fingers and after repeated efforts managed to open it. There were two small photographs inside. One was Ernest Dalton's—and the other was mine!

A crimson flush deluged my face and neck, my hand trembled and the locket fell into Hortense's lap. She raised her solemn eyes now grown sadder and more solemn than ever, and said in a voice more plaintive and pleading than any voice I ever heard before,

"Then you know him?"

I was mystified. I could hardly remember afterwards what I had answered to her strange question. I think I said in a seemingly indifferent voice,

"Is it Mr. Dalton?"

But I know she looked at me with an expression of infinite reproachful longing and asked,

"Have you a doubt of it?"

"But I never gave him a picture of mine," I argued, "and moreover, I never had pictures taken like this one. If it is he, where did he get this, and why did he put it here?"

She shot a wincing, suspicious glance at me from under her white lids and repeated huskily,

"You never gave him this picture?"

"On my word, I did not Hortense," I answered. "How could I? It never belonged to me. I never saw it in my life until this moment. We cannot be sure that it is my portrait."

"Look at those eyes and that mouth, and the hair waving over that brow," she muttered, half in soliloquy, with her gaze still bent upon the mysterious locket. "Of course it is you, Amey Hampden, and no one else."

"Well, it is a dark puzzle to me," I said, "and I wish I could explain it."

Then suddenly remembering the other strange feature of the circumstance, I turned impulsively to Hortense and observed:

"I did not know that you and Mr. Dalton were friends. I never heard him mention your name."

"Nor did I know that you and he were friends," she interrupted, a little incisively, I thought. "I never heard him mention your name."

"That is strange" said I, "for he has known me from my infancy. I have sat upon Mr. Dalton's knee time and again, listening to his thrilling anecdotes and telling him my petty confidences."

"Have you?" very indifferently.

"Yes, and that is why I am morally certain this picture can in no way be associated with me, for there is no reason why Mr. Dalton should have one and keep it secret. Besides, I ought to know" I argued warmly, "whether I had ever had such pictures taken, and whether he had been given one or not."

"Well it is very like you, Amey," Hortense resumed in a more calm and friendly tone "So much so, that when I saw you for the first time at Notre Dame Abbey, I recognized you from this."

"Oh then you have seen this before," I exclaimed.

A deep, red shadow flitted across her face for one moment and she answered timidly.

"Yes, he showed it to me, but when I met you I could not remember where it was I had seen your face before. It troubled me then, and it has often puzzled me since. Now, the whole mystery is solved" she said, rising from her lowly seat, and going towards the window. She still held the locket in one open palm, and I know she muttered, half audibly, as she turned away

"Who else could it be?"

From that moment Hortense was not the same. She tried hard to appear her old self. She even laughed and chatted more merrily than ever, but I felt rather than saw the difference. There was some undertone of mystery about this affair, that she was striving to hide from me, and that conviction built up an ugly barrier between our hitherto unswerving loves. I had never broached any subject to her that required to be spoken of reservedly or discreetly. I would not have had her know that secrets should exist between us, and therefore I could not help feeling the sting of these unfortunate circumstances that had been so strongly evolved out of chance.

Of one thing I was certain that Hortense did not look upon Earnest Dalton as an ordinary friend or acquaintance. Ordinary friends have not the same influence over us as he seemed to exercise over her. We do not blush at the mention of their names, nor are we agitated by every little reminder of their lives or persons. We can think of them without a far-away look in our eyes, and can speak of them without a tremor in our voice or a sudden change of expression in our countenance.

"If she loves him" said I, in my reverie, that night, and why should she not, it is no wonder that this strange likeness should be disagreeable to her. It has given me some pleasure to see this thing that only looks like me so carefully stowed away in his locket. There is every reason why the same discovery should grieve her—if she cares for him.

I then went back in memory to that dull March afternoon, I had passed in quiet reflection before the library fire. How vividly it all rose up before me. My sudden awakening from a stupid slumber, my firm conviction that some one else was in the room, my timid whispering question, the tinkling sound of something falling upon the floor, and my subsequent surprise on finding this queer, unfamiliar trinket lying at my feet. Now that it was proven to be Ernest Dalton's, the mystery was thicker than ever. How had it come there? I asked myself this perplexing question over and over again. Perhaps it had been lying in the folds of the upholstering for days or months, and that by chance I had disturbed it when I threw myself wearily upon the sofa. Mr. Dalton often came to sit and talk with my father of an evening when we were out. In fact we were never surprised to see him drop in at any moment, and it was quite likely, I concluded, that he had lost the little ornament without knowing it, and as no one of the household had made mention of it to him, as they would have done had it been found, he evidently thought it useless to speak about it under the circumstances, and out of his silence and mine grew this new aspect of affairs.

Satisfied with the probability of this solution, I dismissed the first view of the subject and gave my thought and attention to that other more interesting one, which compromised, to all appearances, my little friend's affections. There was no doubting her sentiment. All the artful veneering she could ever put upon her words or actions had no power to deceive me. There was no indifference in her indifferent attitudes, none at least that was real. Who could tell better than I, who had myself gone through the ordeal? I knew too well what the nature of such a conflict was, not to have detected its workings when they were going on under my very eyes. Besides, was there not some strange new feeling awakened within my own breast, by this unexpected turn of the tide; and was I not striving to guard it and hide it, maybe as vainly as my friend, for all I knew.

I had been making vague conjectures about Ernest Dalton for some time, wooing the possibility if not the probability of being more closely associated with his life some day, than I was at this period. His words had always an underlying signification for me apart from that which any casual listener would detect, and I had studied him so! Every outline of his face and figure was engraven upon my memory, the very curves of his ears, the shape of his figure, the form of his eye-brows, the fit of his collar, the pattern of his neck-ties, all were quite familiar to me. I had taken a pleasure in noticing them, and a still greater pleasure in telling them to myself over and over again. Surely then, he was more to me than all those other people who came and went and left not a trace of their personality inscribed upon my mind or heart. In spite of my wilful protestations, and avowals of indifference, I must have been living all along in the fetters of happy slavery, else, why so many fond recollections of a past that was, after all, but the interesting progress of a prosy human life?

It takes very little to settle our doubts sometimes, and rudely awaken us from dreams and fancies that have colored our idle hours with a tinge of exquisite gladness. The best of us are jealous in the abstract, though even in words and deeds we are above the paltry passion; and the fear that, while we are holding our idol at a distance the better to feast our eyes upon the beauty of its form, intruders are creeping dangerously near to it is enough to stimulate us to prompt action.

We make a rush forward to seize our treasure and bear it triumphantly away where no one dares to trespass. But Mr. Dalton had not sanctioned nor encouraged such a regard for me, and I was proud, more than anything else, more proud than loving, more proud than persevering. For my own peace of mind I would not stop to analyse my real feeling towards him. A passive friendship seemed to satisfy him, why should it not also satisfy me? He saw that Arthur Campbell showed a preference for me and might seriously engage my affections at any moment. But he did not care evidently. Perhaps he thought he was too old; maybe he was poor, maybe he was not sure of a return of love from me? Did this uncertainty justify him? Not in my eyes. Faint heart never won fair lady. A man who "never tells his love" cannot be judged by the same standard as the pensive maid who lets

"Concealment like a worm i' the bud Feed on her damask cheek."

If I were a man, I would win the object of my love in spite of destiny herself, and therefore have I little faith in timid hearts that shrink from such impediments as inevitably obstruct that course that never does run smooth.

The man who loves a woman as a true woman deserves to be loved, will never give her a second place in his regard before the world. We have nothing to be ashamed of in our honest loves and therein lies a rigid test. It is true that in our day it makes a great difference to us whether certain persons attract the potent attention of fashion's votaries or not. A plain face, or an awkward gait, or an eccentric manner, can turn the tide of a whole human life; for such superficial irregularities have proved many a time to be a stumbling block to our most willing affections, when we could have loved and cherished a soul were it not for these accidents of the flesh: an uncouth demeanor, an unpolished exterior, an old fashioned accent, or something just as trifling which our modern propriety ridicules. It has come to this, I know, in our times, that the world expects an explanation or an apology of some kind, when people of social standing allow themselves to be wooed and won by persons whose lives are not regulated according to the popular taste. Men marry beauty and talent and accomplishments as though any of these things were solid enough to maintain their prospective fortunes and women betroth themselves to men and manners, and are satisfied that if they have nothing to eat, they will always have something to look at. The great majority of rejected men in the higher walks of civilization, as the word is used in our day, are whole-souled fellows, whose clothes have the misfortune to fit awry, whose shoes are clumsy, and whose ways are natural. It omens ill for the human race that in spite of its much vaunted development and progress, there should be such a mental poverty and moral weakness prevailing among the representative classes. It is nothing else than a serious reflection upon this self-glorifying century of ours, to note how subservient our people are to harmful, social regulation, and how indifferent they have become to those moral restrictions that encroach upon the liberty of these questionable conventionalities.

These, however, are not the people that are ever associated with the mention of the nobler and grander phases of human life. We pity them for sacrificing their better selves to so thankless and perishable a cause, and we would redeem them by gentle persuasion if they were willing, but there are aspects of the situation upon which our eager solicitude may not trespass, and having reached this limit we must turn away with a shrug of the shoulders and leave them to their own hazardous guidance.

Ernest Dalton was not one of these, although he happened to be markedly favored by persons of every distinction and rank. He was received with a smile and a pleasant greeting wherever he went. He had won the goodwill of social, political and scientific magnates, and yet it could not be said of him, as of many another such luminary, that he paid too dear for his whistle. He had not purchased his popularity with servile adulation and at a sacrifice of his own personal dignity. The smiles of the world are too transient and uncertain to repay one for such a compromising tribute, especially when we can provoke them in a worthier and more respectful manner. I doubt, however, if ever a laurel-crown were worn more comfortably than Ernest Dalton could have worn his.

And yet he was a very plain man, who spoke with an ordinary accent, who wore unfashionable clothes, who never boasted of pedigree, but who earned a distinct individuality about with him though he never intruded it upon others. He was affable and agreeable without that exaggeration of either quality which spends itself in profuse laudation of social comets. He was a favorite but not a parasite, and could lay his hand sincerely upon the clumsy waistcoat that sheltered his sterling heart and say to that world of artifice and cunning. Non serviam.

Surely if it is possible to extract any sweetness from a world-given fame or distinction, it is when that world has thrust it on us, and not when we have begged and striven and pined for it, and bribed hidden forces to unite in supporting and advocating our cause. There is no flavor to the cup of fortune when we have used our fellow-mortals as stepping-stones to the rank or wealth which brings us within reach of it.

It may seem that I had an exaggerated view of Mr. Dalton's standing in society, but it was the popular view that every one fostered, and could not, therefore, be magnified by my personal appreciation of his true worth. I had always admired him, even before I began to think of him in any particular way, the thought that he had been one of the few kind patrons of my neglected youth, seemed to bring him yet nearer to my deepest regard as I grew older.

But he had changed with my life. He was not now what he had been in my younger days. No one would have thought, to watch us together or listen to our aimless conversation, that we had ever been more than ordinary acquaintances. This vexed me. I wanted him to show me more attention on account of our long-standing relationship. I thought he could have presumed upon our early friendship to call me by name before strangers, or in some way insinuate that I was more to him than all that motley crowd of fashionable humanity that flitted and buzzed around us.

Ah! there are many such petty needs as this gnawing at our poor, dissatisfied hearts. Things are going wrong on all sides of us, and the beautiful harmonious mechanism of life that enthusiasts sing about, seems nothing but a helpless repetition of jarring discords for some of us. The circumstances of our varied experience do not fit into the places allotted them, and we find ourselves often in false and painful positions, with no alternative but to endure patiently or peevishly what men call the inevitable.

If only we did not wish so ardently for those things that may not be! Why does not the human heart control itself with some philosophy that can despoil forbidden fruit of all its tempting qualities? Why need we covet probabilities that may never be nearer to realization than they are now?

This sort of reasoning had helped me in some measure to combat the worrying dissatisfaction that threatened to preside over what should be the happiest epoch my life. I drifted into a voluntary forgetfulness of old associations. I stifled the suggestive voice of memory, and since this is the way of the world, thought I, let me subscribe to its profane regulations as well as the rest. I will be the plaything of chance, and risk my lot for better or worse.

But here was an impediment, already, which awakened the long dormant memories of my past. Here was something that needed investigation, and might possibly in its issue, interfere with my worldly-wise policy. I could not tell yet, but the time must come now when these vagaries would end in one thing or another.

With these conflicting reflections storming my pillow, I fell asleep. My mind was tired, and I slept the heavy, dreamless slumber of exhaustion. When I awoke again it was morning, although it seemed to me, I had but a moment before turned over and closed my drooping eyes.

I arose and dressed abstractedly and went in search of Hortense. We were to have breakfast in her room, she informed me, as she was feeling unusually lazy. I looked at her curiously and saw less color and freshness in her cheeks, less sparkle and vigor in her eyes.

"You are sure it is laziness, Hortense?" I asked leaning over her, and touching my lips to hers.

"Why, of course it is," she answered, stretching her arms drowsily over her head and laughing lazily. "You have all been so good to me, that I feel quite spoiled," she added, rising slowly and coming towards the dainty, impromptu breakfast-table which had been set for us, near the open window. Our meal proceeded in subdued gaiety. We talked and laughed about many things, as if neither heart was busy with other and deeper reflections, and we did not fail to do justice to the tempting provisions before us.

When the meal was over Hortense said

"I do not like the way you have dressed your hair this morning Amey, you do not look like yourself at all."

I laughed and answered indifferently

"Oh! it will do well enough. What difference does it make?"

"Well, it does make a difference, Miss!" she broke in with playful emphasis. "It makes the difference that I am going to do it over. Come into the dressing-room and I will make a perfect beauty of you. You shall see."

I arose and followed her into the adjoining room, where she placed two seats before a long mirror that reached nearly to the floor. Mine was a low footstool, and hers a padded chair. I threw myself down at her feet, and drawing out my hairpins gave myself up entirely to the gratification of her latest caprice.

Very soon her old humor broke out in merry little peals of laughter, as she turned me into a Japanese or Feejee Islander, by appropriate arrangements of my plentiful hair; or her old partiality asserted itself as she praised my flowing tresses and made me assume attitudes that were peculiar to the representation of Faith or Undine.

"Oh! now you look like pictures of Mary Magdalene!" she exclaimed suddenly, as I stooped to pick something off the floor. "Stay that way just for a moment. I hear la bonne coming and I want her to see you. Here she is." There was a hurried tap at the door and la bonne came in, with a face so full of purpose that we forgot our fanciful amusement. She advanced towards me with a little folded paper which she held out saying

"Mademoiselle, c'est un telegram!"

It was probably from Mde de Beaumont, I thought, announcing her return, and quietly signing the necessary paper, I tore open the sealed message and read it.

The room began to turn about me. The words grew blurred before my eyes I raised my hands in distraction to my head and fell sobbing on Hortense's knees.

"Amey, dear Amey, what is the matter?" She cried, eagerly bending over me with quick starting tears of sympathy in her eyes.

"My father!" I moaned, "my poor father!"

"Is he ill or what? Do tell me what ails him Amey?"

"Worse than that, he is dying," I sobbed out convulsively. "He will be dead before I get back. Oh! What will I do!"

"Do not cry so, Amey dear," Hortense interrupted faintly. "It may not be so bad as you think; These telegrams always sound so blunt and dreadful. While there's life, there's hope, you know. Come and get ready immediately, time is your best friend now."

I took her arm and went passively with her to my own room. Her fortitude sustained me greatly. I rolled my flowing hair up again carelessly enough, God knows, this time, and began my preparations for my sorrowful journey home.

Hortense talked to me all the time and kept my own maddening thoughts at bay. I gathered together only those things I would urgently require, and gave her my keys to attend to all the rest when I was gone.

In an hour from the time I had received the dreadful intelligence of my father's sudden and serious illness, I was taking leave of Hortense, with a bitter sorrow and fear within my heart.

"Good-bye Amey, and may God bless and comfort you!" she said reverently, with both hands clasped about my neck, "and remember," she added, kissing away my fast falling tears, "if ever you have need of a friend to love you, or serve you, or comfort you, you must come to me, will you not Amey? tell me you will."

"You are very kind Hortense," I answered in a broken sob, "some day I may have cause to remember these words."

"And you will act upon them, Amey? Will you not?" she put in eagerly. "Can you doubt that my heart will ever be a refuge for you? If you think anything of me you will make me this promise before we part."

I looked steadily at her through all my blinding tears, and saw the hallowed light of the noblest and most generous human sympathy reflected on her wasted countenance. I could never doubt her again, no matter what strange or suspicious things came to pass. I took her thin, warm hands in mine and answered firmly:

"I promise you, Hortense, when I need the love and devotion of sustaining friendship, I shall come to you. Good-bye!"

And then we parted.

I stopped on my way to the depot to send a telegram to Mde. de Beaumont, apprising her of the cause of my enforced departure, and entreating her to come home as soon as possible lest Hortense should have another attack of illness. Having discharged this duty, I gave myself up entirely to my own sad thoughts.



CHAPTER XI.

It was evening when the train reached my destination, a quiet, pleasant, Autumn evening. The tinted leaves were stirring gently on the boughs, and here and there an early star was twinkling in the dusky vault above me. As soon as the noise and tumult had abated a little, I arose and sauntered slowly towards the doorway of the now deserted car. On the platform outside stood Mr. Dalton and Freddy, looking anxiously at the passengers as they filed out from each exit.

Freddy saw me first and cried out impulsively. "Here she is!"

Mr. Dalton turned quickly around and hurried towards me.

"What is the news?" I asked, studying both their faces. "Is he dead?"

"No Amey," Mr. Dalton answered with a voice of deep sympathy, "it is not so bad as that, though he is very ill indeed!"

"Thank God!" I muttered, "I shall see him and speak to him then after all."

I got into the carriage with them and drove towards home. Mr. Dalton did not wait for me to question him, but began to tell me the sad story of my father's sudden prostration, as soon as the horses' heads were turned away from the noisy depot.

He had been sitting with him the night before, he said, and they talked quite cheerfully as usual over their cigars. "He had even been quizzing me as an old bachelor," Mr. Dalton observed, with a faint smile, "telling me I had wasted my life in solitude, and all that kind of thing. It was a fine night and we sat smoking and chatting until it was quite late, when suddenly I looked at my watch and started up. It was near midnight."

"Although I have no one to scold me for keeping late hours," said I, "I must hurry away now; it is time for respectable Christians to be dreaming."

"And are you a respectable Christian, Dalton?" he interrupted, playfully.

"Well I might be worse," said I.

"Yes yes, old fellow, that's true" he answered, "I wish more of us were like you. You're a good fellow Dalton," he continued, rising up and slapping me vigorously on the shoulders.

With this we shook hands and bade one another goodnight. I lit a fresh cigar and went out by the library door. There was a bright moonlight outside, and I sauntered quietly down the causeway towards the street beyond. I had just reached the gate when I heard Mrs. Hampden's screams in the distance. I listened and heard her call my name. I flung down my cigar and rushed back towards the library. The door was open and your father was lying on the floor with his eyes closed. I persuaded them all to be quiet, for the servants, and Mrs. Hampden, and Fred here had all rushed frantically in. We despatched a messenger immediately for the doctor and in a little while we had the patient removed to his room, where he now lies. "We are awaiting a crisis" he added in a low tone, as we drew up in front of our doomed house, "the doctor says nine hours will bring one change or another."

We stepped out of the vehicle and passed quietly in. Not a sound was audible anywhere. I went up to my own familiar, little room, and flung my hat and other out-door apparel listlessly upon the bed. I bathed my eyes and smoothed my hair, before going out to encounter any one of the household. In the dimly lighted hall outside, I met old Hannah, who dropped her apron from her eyes at my approach and whispered:

"The Lord be praised, Miss Amelia but I am glad to see you back. How do you feel yourself?"

"Oh! I am all right Hannah" I answered, "but how is poor papa, will he ever get better?"

"God is good Miss Amelia and he does what's best" she put in vaguely, "when our time comes, you know, the best of us has to go. It's right to be prepared for the worst, for the will of God must be our will too."

Her words brought the hot, blinding tears into my eyes again.

"Can I go to him?" I asked, leaning towards her, "Could I speak to him, would he know me?"

She shook her head silently for a moment and then said:

"The doctor will be here in half an hour or so, perhaps he'd let you in to see him when he comes. In the meantime" she added, "come down and eat a bit, for I am sure you don't look much too well yourself."

"What doctor have you?" I asked after a moment's reflection.

"Well, there's two, you know," she answered me gravely, "but Dr Campbell comes the oftenest. Dr. Jasper and himself came together last night but he's been here twice to-day already. Oh! he's been so kind and attentive Miss Amelia, it would do you good to see him."

I changed the subject by asking bluntly, "Where's Mrs. Hampden?"

Hannah hesitated a moment and moved towards the stair.

"She's lying down" she said, "the shock's made her weak."

I followed and we descended into the dining-room below. Some tea things were spread out upon a tray and Hannah brought in the urn. I sat down and resting my elbows carelessly on the table, I buried my face in my hands. With a strict injunction to take some supper Hannah left me, having various duties to perform outside. The strong aroma of the freshly-made tea was almost enough to satisfy me. At any rate I did not pour out any immediately. I was too tired, too dazed, too everything to exert myself in anyway. My head was still unsteady from the motion of the car. My eyes burned from the bitter tears I had shed. My lips were parched, and dry, and feverish, my temples throbbed with a dull oppressive pain, and my heart was very heavy. I heaved a deep unsuppressed sigh which died away into a plaintive moan. My lids closed wearily and two large hot tears fell upon the smooth white linen table-cloth.

"Amey, my poor child," said someone, laying a heavy hand upon one of my shoulders. I started and raised my eyes involuntarily. Mr. Dalton was standing by my chair looking down upon me with an infinite pity in his face.

"I thought no one was here" I said coldly. "When did you come in?"

He did not answer me with words but I shall never forget the way he looked when I asked this unfeeling question. His reproachful glance brought the color to my pale cheeks. I felt ashamed and sorry for having spoken thus, and I sought to excuse myself in a measure by saying, "I feel so wearied and distracted, I hardly know what I am doing."

"Drink a cup of tea, it will refresh you," he said with much deep solicitude in his voice.

He poured it out himself and laid it down beside me. It was an action as gentle and graceful as any woman's. Through all my grief and fatigue, I could not but notice it.

I took it from him and sipped it obediently, while he, with his hands thrust into his pockets, walked up and down the room in silent meditation. Before I had finished, the door opened again and Freddy appeared saying:

"Doctor Campbell is with my father now. He has asked to see you."

Remembering Hannah's words that he might allow me to talk a little to my father, I jumped from my seat at the sound of this intelligence and hurried after Freddy.

Mr. Dalton held the door open for me as I passed, and though he spoke not a word, I knew immediately that he had put a wrong construction upon my eager response to this summons. It was not a time for explanations, however, and I hastened past him and up the broad stairway outside.

At the door of the sick-room Doctor Campbell stood waiting for me. He put out both hands eagerly and clasped mine. When we are condoling with one another in such hours as this, we throw off the restraint of conventionality and stand before one another, as two human souls, bound by the holy ties of an earnest sympathy; the question of ordinary decorum becomes suspended, while we weep with our afflicted brother and sister, and we call one another tenderly and respectfully by name, though the next moment we must be distant and reserved as before.

Doctor Campbell led me quietly into the room where my father lay prostrate, the victim of a dreadful illness. There was hardly any change discernible in his placid features, only a haggard line about his mouth that told of inward pain and struggle. His face was a little flushed and his breathing labored. He opened his eyes so, we approached the bed and smiled at me. Doctor Campbell seeing that he recognized me stole from the room and left us alone.

"Poor Amey!" Were the first faint words he uttered closing his eyes wearily again.

"Do you feel any better?" I asked bending over him and touching my lips to his brow.

He shook his head on the pillow and muttered feebly:

"It's all over with me, child, only a matter of time."

"Maybe not, father" I argued, but with little confidence. There was something ominous in his changed expression, something that smote my heart with a solemn fear as I looked with anxious scrutiny upon him. I stole from the room for a moment, and went in search of Doctor Campbell. He was in the library standing before the book shelves when I entered.

"I want to know Doctor," said I, full of my purpose, "whether my father is in danger of immediate death."

He started at my question and turned quickly around.

"I am afraid that his chances of life are few indeed Amey," he answered earnestly. "Perhaps it is as well to let you know."

"It is better" said I, "it is your duty," and with these words I left the room as abruptly as I had entered it.

It was indeed his duty, for it concerned the destiny of a human soul that was soon to pass from time into eternity. My father was really dying, and every moment was of infinite value to him now. As soon as this terrible realization was thrust upon me, I dried my eyes deliberately, and calmed my agitated feelings. There will be plenty of time for grief afterwards, I said to myself, when I am friendless and alone in the world.

No one had thought of caring for my poor father's spiritual needs in this awful hour. My step-mother considered her best was done when the services of two able medical men had been secured, and no one else wished to make any delicate suggestions while she was assuming the management. I had arrived therefore in the nick of time, for before the sun was very high in the heavens on the morning following my return, my father lay cold and white upon his bed.

All night long, I had watched and prayed with him. Now and then his feeble voice broke forth in earnest responses, as his dim gaze fell upon the bronze crucifix I had placed between his fingers, and once when I had paused to listen to his breathing, he uttered plaintively: "More, Amey, go on."

How I thanked God for this favor! I, who had prayed so often on bended knees and with tearful eyes for the ultimate conversion of my father. When I placed the lighted candle in his dying hand and saw him receive the last rites of Holy Church, I felt that all the gloom and sorrow of my heart had been lifted and dispelled in a moment.

When the gray of the early morning crept in through the latticed window, his eye-lids drooped slowly and shut the things of earth from his mortal gaze forever.

His lips trembled with a final effort. "Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy great mercy," and with the words "Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!" his last breath was spent, and his voice echoed into eternity.



CHAPTER XII.

It was easy for us to understand the cause of my father's sudden illness and death, when we came to enquire into our financial condition. The family treasury had been well-nigh emptied of its contents, by a series of pecuniary losses that had been sustained unknown to us by my unfortunate father previous to his demise. He had risked his money with good motives and a hopeful outlook, but the realization had brought such a merciless contradiction to his sanguine expectations that he gave way under the cruel and unlooked for blow, and passed out of the medley and confusion in which he had been thrown by Fate to grope his way unaided and alone. Although we were no longer what the world calls rich, we were by no means left destitute or poor. We were, of course, called upon by the exigencies of our altered circumstances to make many sacrifices. As this was an inevitable necessity, it was as well for us to put our shoulders bravely and generously to the wheel and accept the decree with a respectful resignation. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away" and men's defiant or wailing attitudes under an unexpected visitation of adversity only re-act to their own ultimate prejudice and do not lessen the heavy burden by a feather-weight.

My step-mother took a rather sensible though worldly view of her position. She silently resolved that if abnegation were at all compulsory, and sacrifices demanded by the new tide of affairs, they would of course be practised, but not where the eye of curious pity could penetrate.

The world, that had honored and respected her as the wife of a wealthy man, should never through any fault of hers gain an insight into her reversed fortunes. This very consciousness, that she had the scrutinizing eye of society to deceive and a deep misery to veneer with smooth words and a false glitter, that a fashionable pity had to be defied and coldly rejected, lent her a heroic fortitude, schooled her to a forbearance worthy of less sordid motives and flavoured her very misfortunes with a vital determination that half-soothed the pain they naturally inflicted.

In the first sad hours of our bereavement we were comforted and consoled by many friends. I believe that my father was universally mourned as a good citizen, of sterling worth; he had been no man's enemy, and had served a goodly number of his fellow-creatures nobly and generously, without ostentation or self-glory. He was ever a careful and indulgent, though not an affectionate parent, and now that he was gone I could afford to interpret his indifference, even in this way, in a new and more partial manner. He had had no conception of what the needs of a clinging, susceptible heart may be, and transgressed entirely out of his ignorance and not through any wilful intent to make his coldness or carelessness keenly felt.

We never know what our true estimate of any one is until he or she has been removed beyond the power of our amending or repentant love. If such a one be called beyond that bourne whence there is no coming back, how soft, and hallowed, and subdued a light is shed by our tender, respectful, and sorrowing memory upon what once had been incentives to our unforgiving and deeply injured pride. If such a one be cast by accident of circumstances or fate so far away from the yearning glance of our regretful eyes, so far beyond that pass, where pleading, human voices become lost in thousand-tongued confusions, how changed the once bright picture of our lives becomes; how vain and purposeless all other aims, save that which, with the powerful strength of a hope that is half despair, pursues the object of our rash unkindness, with outstretched hands and plaintive tone, beseeching for a pardon that may never greet our mortal ears? I, who had lived an obstinate alien from the love and devotion of my parent, who never went outside the narrow, rigid circle of my unyielding pride to tempt or merit his regard, now felt a great void left within my heart which nothing on earth could ever fill again.

When the veil of my former prejudice was rent asunder, and I could only see the still white features and the folded hands of him from whose timid love I had become a voluntary exile, how I hated the sensitive young heart that had turned away in cold rebellion, when its duty was to glow with an undaunted, even servile fidelity.

Perhaps it was because I found myself so utterly alone, for this death closed up the narrow by-ways of mutual sympathy that had ever existed between the widowed Mrs. Hampden and myself. An elder brother of hers had come to attend her husband's funeral, and had evinced the deepest and most exclusive solicitude and compassion for her in her bereavement. He took an intense interest in Fred, holding him at arm's length for a flattering inspection of his physical perfections, and looked upon me as some curious outside appendage to the family pretensions.

They revelled in one another's sustaining sympathy and love, holding confidential councils by themselves for hours at a time in my late father's library. I was not intruded upon in my early grief by their condolences or companionship, they left me uninterrupted to my broodings and my tears, as if I had not the same right to the privileges of investigating our altered affairs as they.

Oh, how slow and how weary are those moments of solitary anguish, when the great tide of universal sympathy is ebbing from us in our grief! How oppressive the silence of suffering when no soothing accent of tender and comforting encouragement breaks upon our listening, impatient ears! How feeble the heart when no helping hand is nigh! How cheerless the prospect upon which the smile of a sustaining love has ceased to play!

About a fortnight after the funeral, on a gloomy October day, as I sat by the window in the privacy of my own room, looking out at falling leaves, and fading flowers, and drifting clouds, old Hannah rapped timidly at the door and informed me that "Mrs. Hampden and the gentleman would like to see me down stairs."

I arose listlessly and sauntered down to the library where they had all three been just assembled in solemn conclave. My step-mother, in her fresh black costume and stiff white cap, was seated in a rocking chair near the door, wearing a placid look of the most harmless and innocent neutrality: her solicitous brother occupied the extreme outer margin of a chair by the centre-table, on which his bony hands with their well-trimmed finger nails were modestly resting, becomingly folded. The hind legs of his sparingly patronized seat were thrust into the air by the weight of his high-bred humanity being entirely deposited upon the front ones. Fred occupied the sofa, where he was comfortably stretched at full length, with his arms thrown carelessly over his head which was resting tenderly in his palms.

When I came into the room the three pairs of eyes were simultaneously turned towards me. My step-mother gave me a gradual look beginning with the hem of my skirts and reaching my serious face by slow degrees. Her solicitous brother, without apology or explanation, lowered his spectacles which, during the family conference, had been shoved up on his capacious brow, and directed an unflinching stare at me in the vicinity of my eyes. Fred, who could not take me all in at once without disturbing himself somewhat, satisfied himself with a full gaze upon as much of my outline as was easily defined in his recumbent attitude.

"Have you sent for me?" I asked, indifferently, not addressing anyone in particular, my aim being merely to break the monotonous silence which prevailed during my inspection.

The solicitous brother dropped his lower jaw as if he intended to answer me, after he had given me to understand that I had either shocked or surprised him very much, or both, and said

"—a—yes, young lady—yes, we have sent for you—a—be seated, young lady, be seated," he continued, disengaging his modest hands from their becoming, mutual clasp, and waving one in a graceful, curved line towards an unoccupied seat in a remote end of the room.

"We think it our duty," he began, in a sepulchral monotone, fastening his spectacles upon me as if he intended to add, "to frighten you out of your very wits," which was a rash presumption on my part, however, for he only said, "to submit to you the result of our careful investigation into the affairs of your late lamented father." I nodded a quiet assent, my step-mother pressed a deep-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, and Fred looked vacantly at the pattern on the wall.

"As you are aware," he continued, clearing his throat which had grown somewhat rusty from his pompous exordium "the late respected gentleman in question did not leave matters in as satisfactory a condition as might have been desired—in fact—eh—well, altogether, the residue of his once considerable fortune makes but a paltry annuity for his bereaved survivors. Were Mrs. Hampden the only claimant she would even then have but a widow's mite, but there are others, unf—others, as you know, these others, ahem, ahem, of course, have a sort of right to a reasonable share, although they have youth and energy on their side, which she has not—however—that is not the point," he put in hastily, as he detected an uneasy gesture from the object of his solicitude. "The subject which we have to submit to your consideration, young lady, is this—we have decided that in her present condition of health and spirits, Mrs. Hampden is unfit to remain here in the gloomy presence of depressing associations—in fact it is a question whether she shall ever be able to resume her domestic duties in this place," here the handkerchief with the deep border was again produced, and the doleful widowed countenance buried in its folds. "We deem it advisable," said the solicitous brother, casting a look of tender, heart-stirring compassion upon his afflicted relative, "to remove her to her native town, where her surroundings will be less suggestive of the recent heavy loss she has been called upon to sustain, and where her crushed energies may regain some of their old buoyancy." The shapely shoulders of the afflicted relative shook with convulsive sobs, after which melancholy interruptions the solicitous brother proceeded in a less feeling and more business-like tone.

"As circumstances have kept you estranged from the friends and immediate relatives of your late father's surviving wife, we feared you might not be willing to accompany her on this journey. Her son, of course, would not desert her in any case just now but being still under age, must submit himself to her immediate guardianship, therefore, young woman, if you have any particular friends or relatives of your own whom you would like to visit for an indefinite time, we beg that you notify them and prepare yourself as soon as possible. It is Mrs. Hampden's desire that the furniture be disposed of for safe-keeping, and the house carefully locked and secured before her departure; I trust, therefore, that you will not delay in considering the subject, and that you will kindly submit your decision to us as soon as possible."

There was a dead silence for a few moments after this eloquent address.

"Is that all?" I then asked coldly and firmly, rising from my seat, and looking at him straight in the face.

"A—ahem—yes, young lady. I think there is no other point left to be discussed" the solicitous brother simpered, dropping the hind legs of his chair and coming towards the door to escort me, and "I trust you will not experience any inconvenience" he added in a half conciliatory tone—"we lost no time—eh—in making known our decision to you."

"Oh, you are very kind and considerate. I shall always feel deeply indebted to you!" I retorted quietly as I swept past him, out of the room.

I went back to my vacant seat by the window, and threw myself wearily into it—then—it had come to this—that I was politely turned out of my own home with no option, no alternative but to seek whatever shelter I best could find among strangers! It was hard, to be left at the mercy of such a bitter fate as this! So young, so friendless, so proud, and a woman!

I did not burst into tears at the melancholy realization, tears were a mockery then: there was too much fire flaming in my eyes, and boiling my blood with indignation; my bosom heaved with quick-drawn sighs, and my lips were smiling in angry scorn. This, then was the result of their secret conferences, to get rid of me! It was not a difficult task, if they only knew it, for my pride would fight more than half their battles for them, and carry me anywhere, to the farthermost corner of the earth, rather than see me trespass upon their privacy or interfere with their selfish plans. I was their toy, their tool, they were not honest enough to challenge me in fair and open combat, they plotted without me, and behind my back, I would not buckle on my sword, for so unworthy an engagement, no matter what the issue cost me. I would let them carry the day. It is the only kind of triumph designing heroes ever know, and we who are above the cowards' subterfuge, can well afford to give them this, we would not have it said, we stood to meet them, lest it might be inferred, that we had come down from the pedestal of our untarnished dignity, to their inglorious level.

But these boisterous reflections soon became spent. I could not afford to be quite so defiant, I, who was alone in the wide world? A serious duty lay before me, the future, with its burden of uncertain sorrows lay at my feet, the past was nothing to me now, but a receding vision of happiness more secure than any I was ever likely to know again. I must go in search of a home, where would I turn my eyes? North, South, East or West? they were all strange alike to me? I thought of Hortense, and my parting promise to her, but there was no comfort in the remembrance of it now. Any other test of friendship but this! How could I live under one roof with uncongenial souls like Bayard de Beaumont? How did I know whether they would welcome me now, when I was homeless, and in a sense dependent?

I thought of the dear, distant Abbey, where I had passed the happiest days of my not over-happy life—but it was now some years since I had left its safe seclusion, and those who had known me and cared for me, were likely scattered and gone.

I would be greeted with that reserved kindness which good stranger hearts extend to any homeless waif—and that, would be worse than all! I thought of my fashionable companions, who had pampered me, and courted me, in my palmy days. How different they all appeared to me now, when I was in need of their kindness and favour! Alice Merivale was away, pleasuring in England, the Hartmanns! the Hunters! the Pendletons! what a cold shoulder they would turn to me, any of them, did I seek their shelter in comparative poverty!

And even if they welcomed me, and ministered to my every want, could I rest quietly beneath their roofs? Could I subdue my rebellious pride and accept their patronage humbly and gratefully "Ah no," said I, rising up, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I must think of some other plan, none of these would ever do?"

While I was yet standing in deliberation by the window, the door opened softly, and my step-mother glided in. I turned, and looked at her for a moment, as she advanced towards me and then directed my gaze back again in silence to the street below. She came nearer and laid her thin hand upon my shoulder. I recoiled involuntarily.

"Amey" she began in the gentle tones of an eager peace maker, "I have come to talk to you a little about the subject just mentioned by my brother."

"Is there anything he left out, pray?" I interrupted incisively.

"No," she answered reproachfully, "but you may not understand our motives properly?"

"Through no fault of his then," I muttered half savagely, "he was most explicit, I thought!"

"You are inclined to be unfair to us Amey, and we are trying to do everything for the best," said my step-mother persuasively.

"That depends on what you mean, by the best" I interrupted curtly.

"We mean, the welfare of all concerned," she broke in, "my brother insists upon my returning with him, and Freddie will, of course, accompany me. So might you," she added courteously, "but I think it would not be wise. You would not be happy among my relatives, of that I am sure. So we think, that leaving you the option of a choice from among your own numerous friends, is the most discreet policy of all."

"You are very kind," said I, with choking sarcasm, "to have thought of me at all. You might have given me up with the furniture for safe-keeping, or locked me securely away here in the house until your return."

"Don't be so unkind, Amey," my step-mother pleaded amicably, "you ought to know, that I am concerned in your welfare and will not leave here, until I see you comfortably lodged."

"Like the furniture?" said I.

She did not answer this with words, but I felt her scrutinizing look directed full upon me, I knew I was in a most uncharitable and provoking mood, but I was not responsible, heaven knows, for what I said or did under such maddening influences. I did not want to give full vent to my momentary hatred and indignation, and as my step mother's attitude was tempting me strongly to indulge both, I turned, and said as calmly as I could:

"Have you anything in particular to say to me, that I have not heard before? If not, I think we had better separate!"

"I thought you would not object to discuss our projected plans, a little, with me," she answered with a subdued peevishness. "If you were not so cold and proud, I would like to offer you a few suggestions and in some way prove to you, that my guardianship, limited though it may be, is not merely a formal responsibility."

"What would you have me do?"

"I can't say definitely—but if you would only rouse yourself to a full realization of your position, there is a great deal in your power to do. You are an orphan now, and reject my authority in every way—it is evident that we can never be friends. Why don't you look about you, for love and devotion that will make a happy substitute for what you have lost? You are no longer a child; you are quite able to face the more serious responsibilities of life. If you gave your present attention to this, there would be no necessity for your going among strangers."

"If I gave my attention to what?" I interrupted sullenly.

"You understand me very well—if you wished, you could make yourself very comfortable. Some of the best chances which the city affords are within your reach; other girls would not need to have them pointed out so."

"I suppose you mean marriage!" I said indifferently. "Well, there is just this difference between me and other girls, on this point, I shall never choose matrimony as the lesser of two evils. I shall never seek it as a refuge, nor grasp it as a ready alternative; I have been brought up to look upon it as a sacrament, of course, I must allow for that," I added pointedly.

"That is a very high-sounding principle indeed," she replied, "but it can hardly be applied just now. You can't help the issues of fate, and if you were worthy of men's special admiration and love before this, I suppose a change in your condition, or in the outward circumstances that affect you but indirectly, can make no difference—" She stopped, and after an effective pause added, "It will make none to Arthur Campbell, anyway, of that I am sure."

"Arthur Campbell has never asked me to become his wife," I broke in emphatically.

"That is your own fault. You have not given him proper encouragement."

"No, because I am not at all certain that I would accept him."

"Then you are a fool," she cried out warmly and indignantly, "and you deserve your lot. He is everything that one could wish, as far as wealth and appearance, and family and rank, are concerned. He was, moreover, a favorite of your poor father's and his friend to the end," she added with a tremulous voice, "and your poor father often spoke of you being married to Arthur Campbell," she continued, persuasively, "I heard him say it time and again."

"My father said this, you are sure," I exclaimed, looking eagerly into her face.

"He did indeed, I remember well having heard him," she answered with deep emphasis.

"But, my father did not know," I began in a low murmur, looking wistfully out at the yellow leaves and fleeting clouds. I stopped suddenly, remembering that I was not alone. Before either of us could speak again Hannah appeared in the doorway with the afternoon mail between her hands.

This interrupted our tete-a-tete. My step-mother took the bundle of letters, from which she handed me three, and went away to share the contents of her own with her sympathetic relatives below. Two of mine were familiar to me; one bearing an English post-mark was from Alice Merivale, the other was Hortense's dear writing.

I tore them open and, resuming my seat, read them leisurely. How different they were in every respect! One the effusion of a worldly, artful, diplomatic beauty, the other an earnest interpretation of the loving, ardent sentiments of a whole-souled emotional child woman.

Alice had not yet heard of my father's death, and her closely-written pages told tales of fashionable pleasures and distractions of every sort. She had yachted and hunted, and bathed and danced, she had dined with the pompous Lord Mayor of London; she had hung on the braided coat sleeve of high military relics of modern antiquity, and had been kissed on both cheeks by all the wrinkled-lipped dowagers of the surrounding country.

She had been riding and driving, eating and drinking, walking and talking, with magnates of every age, sex and condition. "At first it perfectly appalled me, Amey love," she wrote in her strange, facetious way, "none but the upper, upper cream of humanity wherever I went. Of course it is taken for granted that I am worthy of the great privileges extended to me. Everything is so intensely exclusive in this Christian country. People whose hands are soiled with the stain of labour, I don't care how refined or how honest it is, never by any chance find themselves at the mahogany board of aristocracy. Coat-sleeves bearing the finger-marks of honourable industry could not safely rub against the sleek broadcloth of high-life unless by sacrificing some of their beautiful (?) hieroglyphics and forfeiting to some extent the reputations they have earned and not inherited."

"I wonder what some of these starched patricians would do in our country, Amey? for there respectable commercial industry is wined and dined without question by Her Majesty's worthy representatives, the least evil, I suppose, would be the complete loss of appetite, that would be sure to assail them."

"I can't tell how much longer we may remain here," her interesting letter continued, "Papa is still hopeful of wonderful results, there are some placid suitors going about, loaded with a burden of pedigree and the honours of their dead, and I know that my sanguine parent fondly expects, that he shall awake some morning and find our generation made famous by such a burden being condescendingly laid before my satin slippers. Vanitas Vanitatum! But, how grand it would be? Picture it, think of it, common place men! Sir Maximus and Lady Adlepait? How would the obscure Miss Hampden, fancy that? To be sure, this indefinite suitor has nought but the borrowed chivalry of his departed ancestors, and if he seek to crown me at all (which is only a heart-rending possibility) it must be with the laurels, hard won by the heroes of a former generation. His silky hands will be full of nothing more tempting than slender veins of genuine blue-blood—but, as papa says—what do we want any more money for, we have enough for any ordinary human life-time?"

"If the project of my anxious parent should assume any definite or reliable outlines, I shall let you know immediately, for I have implicit faith in you, and I know you would never betray me, I must tell my novel experiences and opinions to some one, and the best someone is you. Take every care of yourself, while I am absent, some day you will be coming to my manor-house on a visit. I will try to get a husband who has some unmarried masculine relatives, so as to keep up the fun of my own courtship among my particular girl-friends. I intend to make the most of my life while it lasts, I believe in the world I am most sure of, so don't trouble me with any of your pious lectures, they only upset me, and make me feel very gloomy. Give my love to every one who thinks of asking about me, and write a long, chatty, gossiping letter, very soon to your sincere ALICE."

Her bright, spicy pages had wooed me away from all my gloomy thoughts and surroundings. My tired spirit had flown across the broad Atlantic at sight of her missive, and reveled for a few happy moments, amid phantom pleasures. Now, with her finished letter lying in my listless fingers, upon my lap, I was creeping back to my sorrows from this outward sunshine, that had fallen in a golden flood, upon the dark shadows of my present miseries. The slow awakening to my actual condition reminded me of my third, unnoticed letter. I took it up aimlessly, it was unfamiliar to me, and turned it over in my hand.

"Who is it from?" I muttered in quiet astonishment, tearing the thick envelope across with a half amused curiosity. The reader will not wonder that my curiosity became still more deeply aroused as I took out the neatly folded paper which was enclosed, and read the following—

"MY DEAR AMEY,—I have learned with profound regret of your dear father's recent demise, and hasten to offer you my most earnest condolence. It is a great grief, I know, but not without its consolations, for it is our beautiful privilege, to live in hope, awaiting the day of a happy re-union with those who are not lost but only gone before.

"In the early hours of our sorrow, no matter what its nature may be, we cannot incline ourselves to look upon the brighter side, which our friends will endeavour to hold up to us; therefore I will not intrude my feeble words of comfort upon you now; my object in writing to you at present is to ask you whether you intend to live on with your father's second wife or not?

"If you should find yourself in any dilemma pertaining to this critical question, I wish you to understand, that my house and home (such as they are) will always be open to you. You have a right to them, and nothing would give me greater pleasure, than to have you with me. In a sense we are strangers, for circumstances have kept us apart, but, I think I love you more dearly than any of those with whose names and lives you are more familiar.

"I am the only surviving relative of your dear, dead mother in this country; our fathers, being brothers, but as I lost mine in my early youth, I was brought up in my uncle's house, with your mother for a little sister.

"It now happens, that you may need the shelter of a real home. I wish I had better to offer you, but such as it is, I beg you will not hesitate to accept it, if it can relieve you from greater discomforts.

"I am, my dear Amey,

"Your loving and sincere cousin,

"BESSIE NYLE."

My hands fell into my lap a second time; I was almost dazed with astonishment. To think that at the very moment when I was puzzling over the melancholy enigma, of where to find a home whose shelter could be both generously given and comfortably received, this strange but earnest offer should suggest itself.

Without a moment's hesitation or forethought, I sat down and wrote a hurried reply, accepting with eager enthusiasm the shelter of her home and love, adding, that circumstances would force me to avail myself of her cordial hospitality even sooner, perhaps, than she expected, as my step-mother was leaving the house in a week from that date and would like to see me safely disposed of before her departure.

It was only when this letter was sealed and dispatched that I began to analyse my extraordinary situation and its possible issues. It is true that at the time of my decision I saw only a haven of rest rising out of the gloom and mists that hung heavily about me, some definite shelter from the storm of confusion and sorrow that had broken upon my life so suddenly.

But when time wore on a little I began to question myself uneasily about the step I had so precipitately taken. To act upon my cousin's kind suggestion, was to go away from all my dearest and fondest associations; it would oblige me to give up my past life, sorrows and joys alike; to abandon the few friends, in whose companionship I had found one of my rarest delights, and to go among strangers who could not care for me except in a relative or, at most, an indirect way.

What would they say? those who pretended to be interested in my welfare and happiness, when they found I had gone to a new home among new faces and strange hearts, would they miss me? Would they wish me back? or would they soon forget me amid the other gay distractions of their daily lives?

Should I let them know that I was to leave so soon for an indefinite length of time? If they were anxious about me they could come and find it out; but they had come after the funeral and I would not see them; how could they tell I wanted them now? It was the penalty of my former indifference that I must need sympathy and consolation when they had both passed out of my reach.

What a dreary, endless thing life seemed at this period!

A sort of lethargy had taken firm hold of all my senses. I went about like one dreaming, sighing and weeping, and wishing I were dead. My heart lay like a heavy stone within my breast, and a dark impenetrable gloom seemed to have shut out all the brightness of life from my eyes forever.

It was dreary Autumn weather besides, and that fed my morbid tendencies considerably, the wind was plaintive and the leaves were dying, the very sunshine looked pale and cold.

A few days after my reply to cousin Bessie's generous offer I received a second letter from her which was earnest and loving, and gentle as the first. She expressed great delight at my decision and ensured me the heartiest of welcomes on my arrival.

It was now the eve of our departure and most of our preparations were consummated. I sat in my usual retreat by the window looking out for the last time upon everything that could remind me of a period when I was less miserable than I was then. Now, that I had nothing to distract or busy me, I could sit with folded hands communing with my past and making uncertain conjectures about my future.

I could be happy with Hortense de Beaumont, I thought, if her family were not so strange—and yet—could I? after what had passed. My friendship with her had cost me more than I had ever feared or dreamed of and still it was not her fault nor my own. It had been our fate, that we should both have loved the same man, at least not love him, but be capable of loving him, which is a different thing. She really loved Ernest Dalton and I?—might have loved him at any moment, but that moment must never come now.

Hortense should never have cause to think regretfully of what might have been, were it not for Amey Hampden; I should never stand in her way except to guard her, to shield her from sorrow or harm.

I could imagine too well what the pain would be to love and to lose in this instance, and I should therefore never inflict it upon any heart whose happiness was as dear to me as my own. It is true that up to this, Ernest Dalton had never spoken to me of his love, how could I then presume to sacrifice him, when he was not mine to give or to hold? Ah! whoever does not believe in any love but that which finds an outlet in articulate words, knows little or nothing about its power or depth. There is a voiceless love that is neither seen nor heard by other eyes and ears—and I believe it is the best—underlying the framework of our lives; it is a part of every pulse and fibre of our being, no one may know it, no one may heed it, but it glows on undaunted, with its steady, faithful purpose, ministering to its own great needs out of the fulness and abundance of its own intensity. Such is the nature of the noblest sentiments which have ever inspired a human heart, the love of God is a silent love, but it is also an active, self-abnegating love, the love of country is a silent love, too great, too sacred for paltry, feeble words. Is it an active love? History knows best.

And our love for one another, may it not lean towards this wonderful perfection? May it not be a silent love of that silence which is far more expressive than words? May it not brighten our eyes and quicken our pulse, though our lips look so neutral and dumb? Does any one doubt it? Anyone at least, whose own keen perceptions have left him above the necessity of falling in with the ready-made judgments and opinions of the surface-scanning multitude?

I do not say that such was Ernest Dalton's regard for me; I do not say that at this time he loved me, I mean in a particular way; but I do say, because I do think, that he acted as if he could. I was not quite the same to him as every other woman friend, he had not spoken to me on many occasions since my return from school; but though they were few they were sufficient to convince me of this.

If a person be honest and trustworthy, the art of veneering is almost beyond his grasp. His smile is a true smile, and his frown a sincere frown; he will not caress you with one hand and cruelly smite you with the other; he can never be a friend to your face and a foe when your back is turned. If he loves you it is written on every feature of his truthful countenance, if he despises you he will show it to you alone. I doubt if there ever lived a more honest or trustworthy being than Ernest Dalton.

It was a temptation to fall in love with a man like him, with his depth of character and his strength of feeling, with truth and wisdom on his lips, with honor and virtue in his heart. According to our common ideas of men and what we would like them to be, it was little wonder that Hortense and I both knowing Ernest Dalton, should have leaned towards him impulsively from the first, though his years were double our own. So tall and so dignified as he was, with such a striking face and such engaging manners, so courteous, so clever, so good, and he was not yet old, the sprinkling of gray in the hair that crept over his handsome brow seemed to lend fresh vigour to his looks and confirm the character which his appearance otherwise insinuated.

But all this was nothing to me now, no more than if it had been some passing dream of summer sun-light and flowers; no more than if some optical illusion had dazzled my eyes and gladdened my heart for a short moment, and left me as suddenly again, with my tame and common-place reality.

I must not even dwell upon the memory of what might have been, for I was pretty sure to marry some one else, and then Ernest Dalton could never come back to me in any other light than that of a devoted friend. "I have saved myself in time," said my thought, as I stood up and went away from the window, "a day might have come when to give him up would be to renounce the happiness of my whole life—that day that I had sometimes fondly, though vainly, dreamed of, with all its witching possibilities and which now lay crumbled to dust at my feet.

"What else could I expect?" said I, with a weary sigh, "Is not pain the fate of the great majority, is not sorrow the portion of the children of men?" Anyhow, I was not likely to see Mr. Dalton ever again. I had sent him his locket, with a few words explaining that "it had been found in the library, and being identified as his, I was happy to return it, hoping that its temporary loss had not caused him uneasiness or worry."

I thought that was the best way of returning it, under the circumstances, and the safest for me, it would prevent any awkward explanations, and accomplish the chief end as effectually as a personal interview. This opinion, however, was not Mr. Dalton's, for as I turned from the window I could hear the shrill ringing of a bell below, and a moment later Hannah came to announce—

"Mr. Dalton!"

"I cannot see him!" I said, "I am busy and tired—and—tell him, I do not see any one, that will do!"

"Miss Amelia, I think you'd better come," old Hannah suggested, with a respectful, suasive tone, "he says he is the oldest friend you have, and so interested in your welfare, you might show him a little more deference, that's just what he said, when he saw me looking reluctant about obeying his wish. You know Miss he's always been like a limb of the family—and it seems unfair."

"Yes, yes Hannah, I will go!" I interrupted eagerly, "tell him, I shall be down in a moment." I flew to the glass, and began to smoothen my ruffled hair, it was better after all to go down, as if nothing were the matter, he was only my friend, my good, trustworthy friend, and I was not treating him as he merited to be treated in this capacity.

Having restored some order to my appearance, I followed old Hannah down the broad stairway, and entered the drawing-room. He was standing by the mantel, with his back turned, as I went in; in one hand, he held his hat and stick, in the other some vagrant trifle he had taken from the mantel-piece, and which he was studying with seemingly great interest and attention.

At the sound of my foot-fall, he turned slowly around, and came forward to greet me; his face was very serious, and his manner steady and quiet.

"I am glad you have come Amey!" he said, as he took my hand and held it tenderly for a moment, "I feared you would send me away again to-day—although, I do not wish to intrude upon you in your grief. I hear, you are going away!" he then added, motioning me to a seat, and throwing himself half wearily into another, "Is it true?"

"Yes, my cousin, Mrs. Nyle, has written for me," I answered timidly, "and I have decided to go—to-morrow!"

"To-morrow!" he repeated with some surprise.

"Yes, to-morrow morning, the others take the afternoon train for their destination," I said quietly.

"How long do you think you will remain away?" he next asked.

"I cannot tell, it will all depend upon circumstances."

"What circumstances, Amey?"

I coloured a little, and looked across the room. It was his privilege as a friend to ask these questions I supposed, although I was not quite prepared to answer them.

"Whether I like my new home and friends, and whether they like me," I began awkwardly.

"Oh, that is what you mean?" he exclaimed gently, interrupting my reply.

I was silent, this was not a safe subject, what else did he think I could have meant?

"I suppose if I had not called this afternoon, you would have gone without bidding me good-bye," he resumed, after a short pause.

"I have not said any good-byes," I answered with an effort to justify myself. "I didn't see the use" I added, half scornfully, "I am not the Amey Hampden to the world, now, that I used to be."

"You are to me—you will always be!"

This was a most stable friendship. How good and sincere he was!

"Thank you, Mr. Dalton, it is kind of you to say so, a friend in need, you know, is a friend indeed."

"It is the only time I could ever feel that I was your friend, Amey," he said, with a half melancholy voice, "even when you were a little child, you never took much notice of me, unless something had gone wrong."

I liked this allusion to the past, it was timely, and brought out our present relationship clearly and comfortably. I laughed, and looked at him freely, as I answered:

"That must have been pretty often, for it seems to me that things have been going wrong all my life," then fearing to strike a dangerous key-note, I added, hastily, "but I must not complain, there are hundreds of people more miserable than I in the world."

"I know one, at any rate, who is," he interrupted, in an undertone. "I have to thank you for returning my locket," he continued, in the same strain, as if it had been suggested by the first remark, "I had given it up as an irretrievable loss."

"Oh! then you got it safely," I exclaimed, with a forced gratification, "I am so glad it was found, for your sake."

"I would not like to lose it now, it is older than you are, Amey," he observed, without changing his sonorous voice.

"Is it indeed?" I answered, not knowing what else to say.

"I lost it on the day of the Merivales' last 'At Home,'" he went on, as if talking to himself, "I had it when I came in here, and I missed it when I went out."

"You were not here on that day, were you?" I interrupted, impulsively, after which I could have bitten the end of my tongue off.

He was confused for a moment; it was the first time I had ever seen him in the least agitated, and in my curious astonishment I lost all self-control.

"I would remember if you had been here, for the day is clearly stamped in my memory: it was cold and stormy," I argued, warmly, "I don't think anyone went out of doors that could help it; it was drifting and blustering so."

"So it was," he answered, evasively, "what a good memory you have."

"For trifles—yes," said I, somewhat playfully. A pause ensued, during which he looked straight before him at the pattern on the carpet I twisted my rings abstractedly round my fingers, trying to think of something safe to talk about, when, to my surprise, he stood up abruptly before me, and held out his hand.

"It is growing late," he said, with a friendly smile, "and I must not detain you; this is," (and he took my timid fingers firmly in his own deep grasp) "good-bye, I suppose?"

His full gaze was upon me I could feel it I could see it even before I had raised my eyes.

"This is good-bye," I repeated, meeting his glance bravely and openly.

"Good-bye then, and may God bless you, Amey," he said, with a deep, earnest voice; "Sometimes when your memory flies back to your old home, give a kindly thought to your old friends as well, for we shall often, often think of you."

He was holding my hand all the while, which is not forbidden between such friends as we were, and without taking it away, I looked reproachfully into his face, and said:

"Don't think so little of me as to imagine I need this parting rejoinder, Mr. Dalton; I can ill afford to forget my few good friends, and you have always been one to me. I hope when we meet again, I will have no more to reproach you with in this respect than you will have against me. I could not say more than this."

"Oh, yes you could," he faltered, laying his other hand over my captive fingers, "but it is better not, my—Amey, at least—never mind, I was forgetting—good-bye once again, and God bless you."

I could feel the touch of his trembling hands upon my own; I could hear the sound of his agitated voice vibrating around me—and I might never see him again!

I stood motionless for a few seconds in the open doorway where he had just left me, feeling dazed and bewildered. His presence seemed to linger a little with me after he had gone! Something in the very atmosphere thrilled me as if his spirit had tarried to witness the re-action that now took place, and had in tender pity shrouded me with its consoling and protecting love.

I felt miserable and lonely, and creeping up the stairway again, I returned to the refuge of my room, and threw myself wearily on my bed. The twilight was beginning to fall, and with its advancing shadows came trooping before my tearful eyes all the various episodes of my chequered life.

To think that mine were what the world had ever called favoured circumstances! I knew a hundred and one persons who looked upon me as a happy, gifted girl, because, forsooth, I had had money and position because I had education and social advantages! If this was what the world called happiness, what then could its misery be?

The question tormented me, whether in the end it were better to follow in the dazzling wake of this all-conquering worldliness, and by crushing all my scruples arise to a new life of careless, thoughtless gaiety, like Alice Merivale's; or whether the whispers of my better impulse were the more salutary and satisfactory of the two, and bound me in all conscience to an obedience and sanction of its precepts.

It was too late now, however, to discuss this point any longer with myself. I had acted so far upon a magnanimous resolve, which, though doomed to cast a shadow upon my own personal lot, would flood another life with the beauty and glory of a compensating sunshine.

"It is more blessed to give than to receive," I said, inwardly, and if I persevere in this generous determination, though it engender repeated acts of self-denial, I cannot but be recompensed in the end. My new home and friends will distract me greatly from my broodings, and by and by all these ephemeral sorrows will have passed away, as young sorrows always do, leaving but a faint trace behind them.

"But, if Ernest Dalton be in love with Hortense de Beaumont," said the little voice on the plaintiffs side, "why does he show you such signs of preference as these; is that the course, of a truly honourable man?"

"Surely!" said the defence "If I magnify evidences of a substantial friendship into something more serious, that is not his fault—besides, he may love me in a way, but he must love her better—and, in any case, supposing he should love me best, if I offer him no encouragement, if I even positively refuse him, Hortense's happiness cannot but be ultimately benefited by it."

I arose, in a little while, and bathed my face, for the dinner-hour was near, and I had to play my part for the last time, before the trio below.

When I went down, they were already seated around the table, my step-mother in solemn consciousness at one end, and her solicitous brother looking meekly up at her from the other. Fred had all one side to himself, the other, was reserved for me.

It was a quiet, formal meal, disturbed now and then by a curt monosyllable from one or the other of us. We had not much to say to each other, considering that it was our last repast around that family board, the dishes and cutlery had all the chat and confusion among themselves. When it was over, I went back to my own quarters and attended to my final preparations, the time of my departure was now near at hand.

Next morning I looked in vain for some friendly face at the depot. No one had thought of me at the last, though most of my friends had heard of my intended departure. I could not be convinced so soon that I was no longer the same person whom these people had flattered and courted a few short months ago.

Our home, disturbed by the hand of death, was no longer a temple of society worship where gas-light revels would be held and the comets of the gay world gathered together to feast. Henceforth, I was an orphan girl with limited means and uncertain prospects. Some day, if I married well, these people would suddenly remember my past glories and then, these slumbering friendships would be likely to revive; to open their hearts and homes to me again. Until then I must consider myself as set aside, not rudely, nor coldly, but with a negative intimation of my altered circumstances which has quite sufficient force for any soul so keen and sensitive as mine.

In one sense, of course, it was all the same to me. I had never counted upon these social ties to any extent, and would not feel their loss acutely but—these poor human hearts of ours—how they will yearn for other human sympathies and regards? I could have been resigned to leave my home and early associations if I might take away with me the soothing conviction that my absence left a void somewhere, anywhere, that would always be a void until I came back to fill it. I had an exalted notion of fidelity and remembrance then, which has been roughly used upon the touchstone of experience since.

But as even this frail compensation was denied me, I saw more clearly than ever how urgent it was for me to go forth resignedly where thousands of my fellow-toilers were struggling already, and, without looking back upon my brighter yesterday, press onward patiently and forbearingly in the course which an unexpected reverse had opened out for me.

When night fell I was lodged in my new home.



CHAPTER XII.

My cousin Bessie, or Mrs. Robert Nyle, lived in a small, comfortable house, on a quiet street, in a small comfortable city, not more than a day's journey from the place of my former residence.

I had, of course, made many conjectures about the relative merits and demerits of the new home towards which I was travelling in all haste. With nothing more accurate to build upon than my cousin's reserved letters and my own vivid imagination, it could hardly be expected that I could arrive very near the truth in my speculations about my uncertain destiny.

Nor did I. I had pictured my cousin Bessie as quite a morbid and prosy character, suspended midway between a hopeless resignation and a helpless despair. I thought there must be lines of sadness about her mouth and a profusion of silver in her hair, I had almost heard her plaintive sighs, and had begun to invent cures for her nervous headaches. I do not know why such gloomy foresights loomed up before me, unless it be because I fancied she was poor and yet educated, and in our circle at that time it was generally believed that people so situated were eminently miserable and uncomfortable. We will not be satisfied with the uncertain until we have made mental sketches of the people and places connected with it, even though they be all awry, as mine were in this instance.

Cousin Bessie was a tall, graceful woman with chestnut brown hair and fine soft eyes, her figure was slight as a girl's, though she was no longer young, and her step was as active and light as ever it could have been in her maiden days. She was not a beautiful woman, but there was as much kindness and dignity combined in her dear face as to make it more attractive than many a handsome one. I was simply charmed with her appearance and manner, and made up my mind that I had no further reason to be solicitous about my future happiness after she had taken me securely under her charge.