A quiet happiness was now Mary’s—a happiness “which passeth show.” Heaven had blessed her, she believed, beyond her dearest hopes. But, alas! the joys of the heart are more fleeting than the days of spring. Where is the mortal that can secure to himself the cup of happiness without alloy? It dwells not under a regal canopy—for a diadem often makes the head ache. Nor with the conqueror, however great his glory in the battle-field—the mangled bodies—the reeking blood—the groans of the dying would prevent it. The poet, then—all his happiness consists in being very miserable. The learned—nay, all they acquire makes them but the more dissatisfied with themselves—and self-dissatisfaction, every one knows, tends not to the promotion of happiness. Then the lover, with the draught in his hand, cannot say it will reach his lips. A something may come between him and his bliss, and the cup may pass away. The cup that Mary had longed to drain to the bottom, was about to be dashed away. The glory that brightened the sky of her being was beginning to darken—and the storm threatened to crush the flower of her affections, even in its happiest moment of existence.

One day she received a letter, written in an unknown hand; she opened it carelessly, but soon became absorbed as she read the following:

“This letter I pronounce a base falsehood,” said she, handing it to her father, “and its author a calumniator, who, like an assassin, seeks darkness to cover his evil deeds, for he has not dared to sign his name.”

Mr. Bryarly also regarded the letter as a vile calumny, not worthy of notice. Confiding in the truth of her lover, Mary had ceased to think of its contents, when an insinuation to his discredit was again breathed in her ear; then came a report that he was a confirmed flirt—a gay deceiver; and as bold slander loses nothing in its busy progress, the rumor was magnified until the seeds of discontent were sown in Mary’s heart—and she was now absolutely jealous. That which she had once imagined so repulsive as to scoff at the mere possibility of her own actions ever being ordered by such a feeling, triumphed—and she was unable to conquer the “green-eyed monster.” One evening she was evidently very melancholy. In vain had she tried to elicit harmony from the keys of her piano, and becoming weary of the fruitless effort, she threw herself languidly on a sofa, and sighed deeply.

“Mercy on us! that was a terribly long and sentimental heigh-o! I wonder which way it went! Ah! I see it now; it floats like a gossamer on that glorious sunbeam, and goes in the direction of New Orleans,” laughed Mr. Pluribusi.

“You are growing poetical, uncle; it is really charming to listen to you—pray go on.”

“Mary,” said her father, who had been also observing her, “any one would suppose all your perceptions were obscured by a thick, ugly, green cloud.”

“Oh, father!” was all she could say.

“You know,” he continued, “there is nothing on earth so disagreeable to me as a jealous woman—”

“Except, indeed, a prudish one,” chimed in Mr. Pluribusi.

“I have great cause, father, to be unhappy; for all the reports I have heard, have been confirmed by Mrs. Webster since her return home.”

“My opinion is, that you are wasting an immense amount of sorrow, all for nothing,” answered her father; “for with the characters of the truest and most upright slander will sometimes be busy. Entertain not so mean an opinion of your betrothed husband, as to believe he is capable of change. The brightest part of love is its confidence. It is that perfect, that unhesitating reliance, that interchange of every idea and every feeling; and that perfect community binds two beings together as closely as the holiest of human ties. It is only that confidence, that community of all the heart’s secrets, and the mind’s thoughts, that can give us permanent happiness.”

“Oh, father! could you but convince me that my doubts are unfounded.”

“I think I can settle the matter to your entire satisfaction, Mary,” quietly observed her uncle.

“How, uncle?” asked she, eagerly.

“You must consent to use a little stratagem,” replied he.

“If you think it right, and father sanctions it, I am willing to do any thing you propose,” she said, looking at her parent.

“Do as you think proper,” answered Mr. Bryarly.

“Have you answered Harry’s last letter?” inquired Mr. Pluribusi.

“How could I?—I am three deep in his debt.”

“So much the better for my plan, which is to arouse the demon of jealousy in his bosom. Write to him immediately, and give him but the shadow of a cause for distrust, and if he is not at your feet as soon as the power of steam can bring him, why, then I will no longer believe in the constancy of man.”

“And then I should no longer doubt his affection. But, uncle, what shall I say to him?”

“Write a glowing description of me; dwell on the pleasant time we spend together; then, if he does not yield a most loyal and ready obedience to the ‘green-eyed monster,’ I will say he cares for another.”

——