BY FITZ MORNER.

"Well, Blessington, so you've come back to locate with us, have you? Got enough of travelling and all its vexations, I presume?"

"Enough? As you please about that, George; but I find no vexations so weighty as to overcome the pleasures to be enjoyed in travel, by any manner of means. Still, I have returned to settle down in my native land, and my good genius seems to have thrown Dallydale in my way; so here I remain, and have commenced practice, as you see—or, rather, intend to commence, when any business presents itself."

"Excuse impertinence, Harry," said the first speaker, with a roguish look, "but—you'll get a wife, I suppose? You know, that's an absolute necessity in these days; to say nothing about performing an act of kindness to the scores who are waiting but to be asked."

"Well, I am not so certain as to the truth of that last remark; nevertheless, I have some intentions of that nature. By the way, George, can't you introduce me to some of the Dallydale ladies, that I may find a maiden to my liking? You know, I'm a perfect stranger in these parts."

"Good!" said George, springing from his chair, and thrusting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. "'Pon honor, I should be delighted to introduce you to some of my lady acquaintance. Ahem! 'Miss Jones, my friend, Mr. Blessington, of—of'—where shall it be, Harry? Paris, or London, or New York, or where? By my troth, Harry, you're the only mortal that I'd give a fig to exchange situations with; but you, with your fortune, your magnificent figure, your"——

"There! there, George; I declare, I was in hopes you had discarded those old ways of yours. It's exceedingly disagreeable, if you knew it, to be descanted upon in this manner to one's face. But come, when for those introductions?"

"This very night, Harry, if you please. I'll go with you, and call on some of my host of familiar acquaintances. By the way, there's one young lady, Miss Somers, a cousin of mine, who saw you at church last Sabbath, and who wishes to make your acquaintance. And—would you believe it?—she even told me so slyly. Yet there's no great wonder; for a man of your magnificent build"——

But Blessington closed his lips by placing his finger upon them, and together they left the office and disappeared up the street. These two young men were old schoolmates, and were quite familiar in their manner with each other. Blessington had been travelling in different lands for a couple of years previous, and, on his return to the United States, had fallen in with his friend, George Hart, some years his junior, and withal a pretty wild, though whole-hearted fellow. Both were wealthy, both of very prepossessing appearance and manners; but Blessington, if either, the more so.

On the evening of the same day in which we introduce them to you, kind reader, they sallied out as they had agreed. We cannot detail their pleasant evening's ramble; suffice it to say that Blessington was convinced that Dallydale was possessed of as charming ladies, and as kind and hospitable souls, as many other places of greater note. The Miss Somers of whom Hart had spoken, Blessington found to be a lady possessed of dazzling beauty, and a power of conversation he had seldom seen excelled. Accomplished, elegant, and lovely, it may appear strange to you, reader, when we tell you that our hero was not at all prepossessed by her appearance. He saw, or thought he saw, a species of contemptuous pride, a sort of glorying in her own attractions, and a scorning of all "lesser lights," that, to a man of his generous disposition, was anything but pleasing.

At another place, however, he saw a lady who was introduced to him as Miss Ella Cole, who appeared possessed of all those good qualities of the heart for which he sought. And, indeed, what beauty there was in her expressive features owed its existence to the genuine artlessness, affection, and sincerity shadowed forth in each particular lineament. Hart was not slow to observe that Blessington appeared inclined more strongly to "tarry yet a little" at this place than at any other during the entire evening.

That night Blessington had a dream, in which a certain pair of mild blue eyes, light sunny ringlets, and petite figure bore no insignificant part. There was another, too, whose ruby lips seemed to curl contemptuously towards the meek one, and whose piercing black eyes seemed to flash upon her the fires of hatred.

Some days after, Blessington met Miss Somers at the mansion of Colonel Auberly, and she appeared delighted to see him. Blessington, in the nobleness of his heart, was equally pleased at meeting her; and thus was the finishing stroke put to the work that rent from Miss Somers her proud heart and placed it in Blessington's possession, he all unconscious of the precious treasure he had obtained, and with his own safe in the place that God ordained for it.

Oh, ye that speak of the folly of prating of woman's wiles, know ye that when she determines, with her whole soul, to win a man's heart, it is twenty to one that, in spite of all human obstacles, she will accomplish her purpose? This was the spirit now awakened in Miss Somers's proud bosom. She saw, with her apt intelligence, the state of Blessington's feelings with regard to her, and she resolved that, come what would, she would obtain from our hero that which alone could content her ambitious soul—his unbounded affections. Did she succeed? You shall see.

From that hour forth, a change was noticed in the entire deportment of Flora Somers, and many were the conjectures as to what might be the cause thereof; but all were equally distant from the truth. Her haughty bearing in society had yielded to one of apparent humility, kindness, and a desire to gratify those around her. Blessington noticed it, and, far from supposing the real truth, he concluded that such was her natural disposition, and that his first impressions were the result of some unaccountable state of his mind at the time of his introduction to her.

However this might be, it was observed that his visits at Dr. Somers's were of frequent occurrence, and soon every gossip of Dallydale had another match in her eye. Few doubted that Flora Somers would eventually be Mrs. Blessington. And if our hero had been interrogated upon the subject, his replies—if he gave any—would not have been greatly at variance with this belief.

Might a peep have been taken behind the parlor curtains of Dr. Somers's mansion, on the occasion of some of these calls, one might have seen how

"Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spake again."

Thus matters stood. You who have passed the ordeal of love, and are now roaming in the fair fields of Hymen, can imagine what were Blessington's intentions and Flora Somers's expectations; while you who, like myself, have only read of such things, must content yourselves with the testimony of the initiated. Thus matters stood.

One evening, Blessington had sallied out for the evening rather earlier than was his wont, and was on his way to Dr. Somers's, intending to at once make known his intentions to "the most adorable of her sex," and be consigned to "everlasting misery or the supremacy of bliss," as she should decide.

Ha reached the door, and had laid his hand on the bell-knob, when he heard a voice sharply enunciating words which struck a chill to his heart's core, but whose pronouncer's voice sounded terribly like that of Miss Somers. He paused and listened.

"Well, mind your own business!" was the sound that greeted his ear from within, in a voice which there was now no mistaking.

"Flora!" reproachfully murmured the gentle voice of Mrs. Somers. And then followed the doctor with—

"My daughter, are you never to desist from your unfeeling disregard of a mother's love? Are you never to repay, even by respect and kindness, that anxiety and devotion with which she watched over your earlier years? It wounds me deeply that a daughter of mine should persist in thus treating one who loves her as no other being on earth ever can. Go to your room, Flora, and remain until you will ask your mother's forgiveness."

The hall-door was then closed with a bang, and Blessington heard the light foot of his heart's beloved ascending the stairway. He tarried no longer, but turned away and retraced his steps to his office. Locking the door behind him, he threw himself into a chair, and, from the bitter emotions of his soul, exclaimed—

"My God, what have I heard! Can it be that my own dear Flora is possessed of a heart like this? Though it tear the cords of my soul in shreds, I never will take to my bosom one who can thus treat her mother. Spirit of my sainted mother, idol of all my early dreams, never will I forsake the vow I plighted o'er thy corpse!"

Bowing his head upon his hands, Blessington became lost in the memories of the past. Hallowed associations arose to his view, and passed in solemn retrospect over his mind. He thought of his boyhood's days, of the old stone mansion that stood in the leafy grove, of the happy hours he had spent in those ancient halls, and he murmured a prayer to heaven, thanking his Maker for thus revealing to him the yawning abyss of misery into which he had been about to plunge.

After this came a calmness and capacity for deliberation that ere long recalled to his mind the recollection of Ella Cole—she that months since had appeared so attractive to him. As it was yet early, he sallied out, and a few minutes' walk found him at the door of the humble brick dwelling at the foot of the main street in the village, where Mr. Cole had long lived and pursued his honest calling. As he was about to ring, his hand was again arrested by the sound of a female voice; not in a loud tone, but softly, lowly, like the murmuring of distant music. It was Ella Cole reading from the "Lady's Book" a tale to her mother, who was listening with earnest attention.

"Ella, my dear girl," called a manly voice from an adjoining room, "will you please to bring me the last number of the 'Living Age?' It lies on the parlor table."

"Yes, father," said Ella, springing up. "Excuse me a moment, mother."

"Be quick, dear," was the mother's reply.

Light footsteps were heard tripping over the floor, and soon again was heard the voice of the sweet girl reading to her mother. Blessington could not resist comparing this scene with that of an hour previous. Being reluctant to intrude upon so happy a scene, he again retired and sought his office, but with far different feelings from those of a short time before.

He called next evening, and was more than ever convinced of the good qualities of Ella Cole's heart. She remained Ella Cole not long thereafter. She now rejoices in the name of Blessington, and proves a source of unceasing happiness to her worthy husband. Many wondered at this marriage—none more so than the two ladies most intimately concerned.

You have perused the simple truth, reader, related to the writer by him we have called George Hart. Blessington is not the only one in the human family who regards a mother in the light nearest approaching that of an angel of any other mortal, nor the only one that knows that in the degree which a girl is a good daughter, in the same degree will she be a good wife.