ing spring to my hopes. Trust had almost faded from my heart; and when the two years were wholly gone, and the red light dimmed into darkling shadows along the western hills, on the anniversary of our parting and our promise, and there was no sign of his coming, I began to sigh over the faithlessness of man, and to doubt, with the heroines of romance, if truth had existence except in name.

Yet in my woman's heart there arose a plea, for even a false lover. What wonder that he did not care to sue again for a hand which had been so insultingly denied him, and a heart which had never professed to reciprocate the love which had been so lavishly bestowed upon it? He who sought it had never known the strength of the affection he had inspired, and had received no assurance of its fidelity. He had believed it scarcely warm in the beginning, and how could he imagine it would now be otherwise than cold?

The appointed time came and went, and he was not here. Yes, he had probably changed, and I was forgotten. And with every hour I resolved to dwell no more upon a useless dream, and root from my heart the remembrance of one who was not worthy of me, and, like a genuine heroine of romance, carried this resolution into effect by recalling every look and tone of the banished one, perusing again and again the letters, no word of which had faded from my memory, and studying with renewed interest the mystic language of my flower-printed pages. And my efforts were attended with the usual consequences.

'Dear me! I should think you were in love,' exclaimed Aunt Ida : how stupid you are lately.'

'And what can I be in love with? some of these trees, or the sheep upon the meadow? Surely there has been nothing more human along here lately.'

'You spend most of your time in looking at the trees and the sheep, to be sure. You have hardly spoken for a month. I hope you are not going to turn into a mope.'

:

'I have not felt very well you know I have not been strong since I was sick and here my voice trembled a little, and the good lady's sympathy was immediately excited she remembered that I had been sick, and did not care to have me sick again: and, like most people in the world, she only ascribed physical causes to physical suffering, and said: You ought to have something strengthening a little wine-bit

ters, or some of Dr. Morrell's cordial.'

'No: when the cold weather comes I shall be better. I wish I could journey; but I cannot go alone.'

Well; why not ask your father to accompany you, or your to take you to the city?'

brother

'Oh! my father is too busy, and would not understand the necessity; and my brother, he is also too much engaged. I do not have to work for a living. I have enough to eat and drink and wear, a garden to walk in, books to read: they can't understand that I need any thing I ought to be well and happy.'

more.

Perhaps you ought to be happy: we all ought to be happy, with so many blessings which we do not deserve; but I don't see how you can

help being sick, unless you are careless about taking cold, or eat something that disagrees with you.'

Alas! I was not conscious of having been guilty of either of these sins, and yet I was far from well; and had it been possible to be happy by force of will, or in obedience to persevering effort, no heart would have been more joyous than mine. In obedience to the promptings of her animal sympathy, Aunt Ida insisted on inquiring every night if I 'felt better,' and if I would not have some one of her infallible remedies for head-ache or 'general debility,' till I was forced, in self-defence, to profess myself entirely recovered, to assume cheerfulness, and to put my tongue in motion too; for the good lady could not understand how a person could be well that did not talk, nor how a person could refrain from talking that was well. And quite as inconceivable it was to her, how there could be a cause of unhappiness that was not visible and tangible, or an ill that herb-drink would not heal.

So I had no longer the luxury of indulging in sadness, and grew suddenly more gay than ever; which was proof to those around me that sickness and sorrow had been scattered to the winds.

It was the last bright morning of summer: how well I remember it. An acquaintance had called, and we were all in the parlor. I was sitting by the window, looking listlessly out, when a carriage drove up. That a gentleman alighted, I was aware, but this did not startle me; and though my eyes followed him, it was not till he turned to enter the gate, that I awoke to the reality; and then, at a single bound, I was out of the room, and before the bell rang, locked in my chamber. In what a dizzy whirl swam every thing before my eyes and not till I had schooled myself to calmness, could I reënter the parlor to meet him yes, the long-lost, and found.

-

I waited to be sent for, and then descended with a mien and manner that would not have disgraced a stoic. My first glance was at my father; and on his brow I read my fate. Had I only been content to read it there, what a measure of woe it would have spared me.

One after another all departed, till we were left alone. My second glance had assured me that my fear and sadness had been an idle and foolish dream. Neither fickleness nor falsehood had cast their shadows upon that manly brow. Truth was in that steady, fearless gaze.

I have fulfilled the days of my exile,' said he, and come to claim my reward; and there was evidently no fear that the reward would be denied him. Not with hope, but with certainty he spoke; and so soothingly did the accents fall upon my heart, that fear for a moment forgot her supremacy, and hope beamed in my eye.

It was a bright summer morning, as I said, though the last; and we adjourned to the bower-that little bower, where girlish fancy first fluttered its spotless wings, where they had been many times folded, and where it was now meet they should spread and bear me to a brighter land. I could not fear when sitting by his side; I could not help being happy yet I told him it would not surprise me if the promise were not kept even now.

'Not kept!' he exclaimed: No man would think of violating a solemn promise: it is impossible.'

:

'I cannot tell all is not clear and bright. But perhaps it is the darkness of the past casting its shadow upon the future. Happiness! no, it is not for me.'

Ah! you must not indulge in these bitter thoughts.. You shall yes, we will yet be happy.'

And though the presentiment remained, I did not again allude to it; and we spent the hours in talking of the happy future, as we hoped to make it for ourselves. It was no Eden or Utopia in which we placed ourselves; and we did not talk of vine-trellised cottages or of bliss unalloyed. Yet it was a bright and happy future, the star of which was love; and when this shines steadily, though there are thorns beneath and clouds above, it is not all darkness.

When alone again, every ray of brightness vanished I could not again pass through the terrible ordeal of asking to be denied, of imploring to be repulsed. I had not strength for another such trial.

Aunt Ida entered my room and found me with my head buried upon my hands, weeping bitterly. There was no one else to listen, and I must speak, so I told her all, and then was weak enough to follow her well-meant but injudicious counsel. She knew my father, she said, (alas! how little she knew him,) and his cold, stern ways, and he was not unlike many other fathers, who will not manifest the interest they feel in a daughter's happiness, lest they should seem weak and womanish, and so shrouded themselves in a cold indifference which is far from genuine. She was quite sure that now, I should have perfect freedom to do as I pleased, and begged me not to throw away, by a hasty and ungenerous resolution, a prize which a whole life-time might never again offer to me.

The next mail brought me a letter, which strengthened the purpose the good lady had half-formed; and one less resolute might have been excused for yielding to its earnest appeal.

'I have seen you,' it said, ' once more. I have seen you; and now it is impossible for a moment to indulge the thought of giving you up. Banished! Never. It cannot, must not be. How wildly my heart throbbed in its ecstasy, though you only saw me very calm as I sat by your side in the little bower. Unworthy indeed I feel of the treasure 1 covet, but it must be mine. For the first time I felt that my love was all returned; for the first time my lips were permitted to touch your cheek, my fingers to twine among your curls. Oh! the thrill it sent through my nerves.

'Write and tell there is no more doubt; that I may come to claim you openly.'

So again I resolved to supplicate for mercy. I had gained the statistical knowledge to prove that I should be in no danger of starvation: the arithmetical proofs were furnished me that Mr. D- could navigate successfully over the shoals and quicksands of the sea of life; and I had learned that he was on the right side in politics and very well I knew that if he were a guest under any other circumstances than as the suitor for his daughter's hand, my father would have liked him : he would have been a man after his own heart.

I sat down and thought: He is my father. To whom should I open

my heart but to him? There is none other in all the world so near to me. To him I owe obedience, and he should be the recipient of my confidence. Alas! that what is duty should be so far from pleasant. Why this estrangement - this terrible barrier between us? Can it be my fault? I will try once more to break it down. He must remember the days of his youth. I have heard that he loved my mother truly he cannot look upon it as sin and folly in a youthful heart to love. I will frankly tell him that my happiness for life is involved. He will relent and grant my prayer. Then with a lighter heart I took my pen, and in the fulness of my confidence, wrote: and when I had finished, felt sure that the affectionate appeals must melt a heart of

stone.

Now there was nothing but to patiently wait; but we who were enduring this suspense and uncertainty solaced ourselves with one stealthy meeting. I had written, and appointed Tuesday for this purpose, as on that day a political caucus would call my father from home, and there would be no danger of an unpleasant interruption.

What an interest I took, for once, in a political caucus! Dinner was ready before the time, and every assistance in my power was rendered to facilitate the early departure of all who were zealous for their country's welfare. And I thought, as I ministered to the wants of him whose face I studied as if life and death were written there, that I saw upon it a more kindly gleam; and ready, like the drowning man, to catch at straws, I felt a relief as if a burden had been taken from my spirit.

This time, as I seated myself by the window to watch and wait, my manners took their tone from the buoyant spirit, and a smile shed its genial influence upon him who had scarcely seen me smile before. For a few hours, doubts were thrown to the winds, and we scarcely thought of the conditions upon which depended the fulfilment of our plans. The course of true love never does run smooth;' but surely ours had long enough gone zig-zag to flow now without a ripple!

We selected our house upon a green hill-side in that same town of Winston, and furnished our home. The week, the day, the hour, was appointed on which our long penance was to end; all the arrangements made for cards and friends and journeyings; and we revelled no longer in dreams, but in realities, and took possession of our life-home. Now, for the first time, we called ourselves engaged, and sealed the troth-plight as troth-plights always are or should be, and felt secure.

The angry tones of politicians without, warned us that our gentle whisperings must cease. One moment of silent, of unspeakable happiness, and he was gone. How should I have endured the thought if I had known it was for ever?

For a little while only, I was sustained by the strength of what seemed to me a certain and happy future there is no strength like that which happiness gives- and then fell prostrate under the certainty of misery-nothing so drinks up the life-blood as heart-woe.

One week after another passed away, and still no answer came to my appeal. It was enough. I needed no words to assure me that darker clouds were gathering, and a fiercer storm was preparing to overwhelm me.

It would not be well to transcribe the bitter murmurings which fell from my lips the anguish of my spirit became like the resistless current of the Maëlstrom, into which I felt I was slowly but surely floating. I struggled, but in vain. Every nerve was strained for endurance, every moment was a prayer for resignation; but alas! though the spirit may bear up, the body knows nothing of resignation. Through the darkness there came not a single straggling beam of light. For what had I thus poured out my heart? Why had I laid down the purest, holiest affections to be again mercilessly trampled under foot?

Like a withered reed, like a blighted flower, like a waning shadow I moved about, till at last I was summoned to receive the blow that was to stun me, and kindly render me unconscious, for a little season, to mental suffering.

It was the twilight of a cold autumn-day. Gray, heavy clouds were lowering upon the mountain-tops, and the wind did not whistle or moan among the half-leafless trees, but seemed to be slumbering with a sleep more terrible than its fierce awakening. There was not a sound of life: all without was dead and cheerless, and within, like walking among the damps of mouldering tombs.

There was a fire in my little stove, but it had no warmth, and no taper had been lighted to deepen the shadows upon the walls. I had ceased to weep: the fountain of tears was dried up like a draped statue I sat, with the shawl drawn close about me, and my head resting upon my hand, supported by the same little table on which it had been bowed so often in weariness and woe, when the door opened; and instead of the kind old lady or the little girl to inquire for my evening wants, my father entered. I aroused myself, for I knew now I must listen, but I did not open the way by query or comment.

He did not begin by referring to the solemn promise he had made, and give a reason for disregarding it, but by wondering how I could again call upon him to speak upon this subject. I well knew his aversion to the man I was professing to love. What nonsense to talk of love, as if there was not another as good, enough more a great deal better.

'But why,' I ventured to say, ' do you object to him? I cannot imagine what there should be which a man should consider a barrier to his pretensions.'

But he only answered that he did not wish to be called upon to state objections: I knew his will, which was sufficient. I could act in opposition to it if I chose, but I should reap the consequences.

I knew too well the consequences to think of braving them, and had no strength to sustain me in walking through burning sand or a fiery furnace.

He was often interrupted by my sobs and wails of anguish, which hardened instead of softening his spirit. On my knees I begged him to take back those words that breathed revenge, to recall what fell upon my ear like a curse, and burnt into my heart. Will you not speak one word of kindness: will you not remember the feelings of your youth? Oh! will you not remember my motherless childhood have compassion upon my desolate life and orphan spirit? Will you not say I shall