A light was seen gleaming at an unusual hour, in one of the rooms of —— college. The sole occupant of said room was Willard Carlton, a member of the junior class. He was a diligent and successful student, but was not wont to trim the midnight lamp. By a wise employment of sunlight, by avoiding the loss of isolated moments, he accomplished as much mental labor as the laws of health would allow, and devoted a large portion of the night to refreshing sleep.

The light attracted the attention of a friend and fellow student, who was laying the foundation of a life of suffering, by prolonging his night studies to the morning hours. He repaired to Carlton’s room, and found him leaning upon his table, his countenance marked with deep dejection.

“Are you ill?” said Temple.

“I am not,” said Carlton, pointing to a seat.

“I knew there must be some cause for your being up at this late hour, I thought it could be nothing less than sickness.”

“It is something more than sickness.”

“Is it any thing in regard to which I can be of any service to you? I am entirely at your command.”

“Thank you—you can do nothing for me. I have received a letter from home.”

“It contains bad news.”

“Yes.”

“Is your father ill?”

“My father is well; but I am informed that another—friend has a mortal disease.”

“Another friend! a lady?”

Carlton bowed his head in reply.

Temple was silent. He knew that Carlton had no relative in his native place except his father. He inferred at once the nature of his connection with the invalid whose situation caused such deep solicitude. He felt a little hurt at the reserve with which he had been treated.

“Perhaps,” said Carlton, rightly divining what was passing in the mind of his friend, “I should have informed you of my acquaintance with Miss Warren. I have tried to do so more than once. My silence has not resulted from a want of confidence, or from a desire of concealing my engagement.”

“I think,” said Temple, “I can understand and appreciate the reason. Does Miss Warren live in your native place?”

“Yes; her parents removed there just two years ago. I became acquainted with her in the course of the first vacation after I entered college. We have been engaged nearly a year. She has recently been traveling for several months in hope of benefiting her health. My father incidentally mentions that her lungs are diseased beyond hope of recovery.”

“What is her age?”

“She was eighteen yesterday. She has seen only eighteen summers, and yet she must go down to the grave.”

“May we not hope that the fears of her friends have led them to overrate her danger?”

“The error always lies in the other direction.”

“Is it your purpose to go home?”

“I have written to my father for permission to do so,” pointing to a letter which lay on the table. “It is useless for me to stay here. When she is gone, I shall have no motive to study. I have desired distinction for her sake. I have lived for her alone.”

Temple strove to think of some topic of consolation which he could appropriately present. He knew his friend too well to suggest any thing which did not fully meet his case. He was constrained to leave him to his own reflections. Assuring him of his sympathy, and exhorting him to seek repose, he withdrew to his own apartment.

Carlton remained in his seat until his lamp was paled by the morning light. He then vainly sought an hour of repose; then rose, and having obtained leave of absence, seated himself in the morning stage-coach, and was borne over the hills and plains toward his native village.

The forests were putting on the scarlet and gold of autumn; but he saw not their beauty. He was like the shipwrecked mariner whose eye is fixed upon the bark which is fast receding in the distance. He was well nigh insensible to every thing around him.

His father was surprised and alarmed as the coach drew up at the door, and his son alighted. The pale and anxious countenance of the son had no tendency to dispel the fears which his sudden appearance had occasioned. To the hurried inquiries made respecting his health, he gave satisfactory replies, and then added:

“I came home solely on account of Miss Warren. Have you heard from her to-day?”

“She is not quite so well to-day,” said the father, in a tone of sympathy which went to the heart of his son. He comprehended at once the state of the case. Sympathy for the evident suffering of his son, prevented him from making even the mental inquiry, whether that son had not failed in duty to him, by not seeking his approbation in a matter so momentous in its influence.

It was not from want of respect or regard for his parent, that Willard had not made known to him the state of his affections. In all ordinary matters, the wishes of his parent were a law to him; concealment was foreign to his nature. But when those dreams, and longings, and aspirations which the young heart is scarcely willing to confess even to itself, began to cluster around a living object; when, ere he was aware of it, all the wealth of his ardent soul was bestowed upon Eliza Warren, he felt an almost invincible repugnance to speak of it to any one but her.

After attempting to partake of some refreshment, he directed his footsteps toward the chamber of sickness, and to him of sorrow. His father kindly offered to attend him, but he begged permission to go alone.

A chill autumnal wind swept through the branches of the shade-trees, which were rapidly losing their foliage in consequence of the early frosts. The hues of evening were falling upon the landscape, and it seemed to him that it would never more be illumined by the morning sun.

As he reached the door of Miss Warren’s dwelling, he met the physician, who advised that she should not see him, or be apprised of his arrival until morning. Willard turned and made his way slowly homeward. His father, not expecting his speedy return, had gone out. The house was desolate—his mother had died when Willard was an infant.

He went to his chamber. Exhausted nature claimed repose. He slept till the light of morning began to struggle for entrance through the window, thickly shaded by the woodbine, which had not yet felt the influence of the frost.

At an early hour he presented himself at the door of the invalid. She was dressed in a robe befitting the sick-chamber. She attempted to rise as he entered, but her strength was not equal to the effort, and she sunk back in her chair. The crimson attendant upon the attempt was succeeded by a deadly paleness, which, however, did not drive the sweet smile from her lips. He stood and gazed upon her, as if upon a statue of surpassing loveliness, or a vision from another world. It was not till her hand was extended to invite him to approach her, and the tears began to fill her eyes, that the spell was broken, and he advanced to press her thin hand to his aching heart. He sat down by her side without speaking.

“I am glad to see you,” said she, almost in a whisper, which to his ear had a sepulchral hollowness. “When did you hear of my return?”

“Have you a cough?” said he, not heeding her question.

Before she could answer, a paroxysm of coughing, which she strove in vain to repress, shook her delicate frame in a manner which caused him to feel from that moment that there was no hope. He rose and paced the room in agony.

“Sit down,” said she, as soon as she had recovered strength to speak. “I shall use no ceremony with you now—sit down here,” and she drew the chair he had occupied closer to her own. “I have heretofore I felt—shall I own it?” and here a smile, such as first won his heart, lighted up her features—“a little afraid of you. I do not feel so now.”

“You do not expect to get well,” said he, as he sat down and took her hand in his.

“I do not,” was her reply, but her countenance underwent not the slightest change. A convulsive burst of grief on his part caused her to weep in sympathy.

“Do not,” said she, “make me weep. Dry your tears and let us talk together.” He endeavored to obey her request.

“Have you suffered much since I saw you?”

“Not much physical pain.” She did not say how much she had suffered when the darkness first fell upon all her prospects and hopes of life. She did not tell him how much she had suffered in view of the anguish which her early death would give to her friends, and most of all to him.

“How can it be,” said he, as though speaking to himself.

“It can, and must be,” said she, with entire composure, “and there is one thought connected with this dispensation, which does more than all other things relating to earth, to reconcile me to it.”

“Nothing can reconcile me to it”—said he, in a manner indicating disapprobation of the expression she had used.

“You surely would not have me like the imprisoned bird which wounds itself against the bars of its prison?”

“Oh no, I was selfish in the remark. I was thinking only of myself.”

“No, Willard, you shall not do yourself injustice, you were thinking of me. But the thought I alluded to is this—all your hopes have had reference to this world. They have not reached beyond the horizon of time. You have loved me as I do not deserve to be loved. I know and appreciate the depth of your love. The loss of your idol may cause you to take off your thoughts from the earth, and fix them on an enduring portion. If my death could be the means of your spiritual life, I think, solemn and awful as is the change which it brings, I could willingly meet it. And will it not have that effect? When I am gone will you not seek a better portion—even an heavenly?”

“When you are gone life will be utterly valueless to me.”

“Do not say so. You cannot say so and be blameless. If I now speak with calmness respecting our situation, you will not ascribe it to indifference to life, and the objects it set before me. You are not less dear to me than I am to you. Nothing has kept my heart from breaking in view of the blighting of all my earthly prospects, but a firm conviction that all events are ordered by Infinite Wisdom—that I am in the hands of a Being whose tenderness far surpasses that of my earthly parents, and whose power will cause all things to work together for my everlasting good. This conviction, and the hope that you will be induced to seek a better portion, enable me to go calmly forward by easy, but somewhat rapid stages, toward the grave. I have ever been very anxious on your account. Even in my happiest moments I have often trembled lest I should be the means of your continuing to rest contented with this world.”

The entrance of the physician prevented further conversation. He found her pulse accelerated, and advised that she should seek repose.

——