Mr. Read was in his private sitting-room;—it adjoined his chamber, and his longest walk was from one apartment to the other. The sun beamed cheerfully through the damask curtains, and the fire blazed and crackled in the grate; but wrapped in his wadded dressing-gown, his feet sunk heavily into a cushion, and his face contracted into a fretful frown, he appeared to be enduring the extreme of cold and discomfort. He was a sorry picture of a three months' bridegroom. His surroundings were tasteful and luxurious,—books and papers and pictures and handsome furniture, and at his elbow stood a silver hand-bell, whose tongue would bring an obsequious servant, ready to perform his bidding; yet his sigh, as he fidgeted uneasily in his downy fauteuil, was a groan of repining.—"Like a jaded old hack! they won't knock him in the head, in consideration of past services; but he may die as soon as he can—the quicker the better!"

"The Northern papers have come, sir, and I thought you would like to see them;" said a gentle voice. It was his ward. A grunt and a gesture bade her put them upon the stand.

"Are you in pain this afternoon?" she asked, sympathizingly.

"I am always in pain!"

"Can I do anything for you?"

"No!" He reached for the papers; but a twinge in his shoulder forced him to drop them. Ida picked them up. The desolate old man excited her sincerest pity.

"It must weary you, holding those large sheets; and the print is fine. If you will designate the articles you wish read, I will do it for you with pleasure."

The offer was tempting, although its acceptance was ungracious. He pointed to a piece, and she removed her bonnet and seated herself near him. He did not inquire if she were going out, and she did not make her sacrifice meritorious in his eyes, by informing him that she gave up her walk to minister to his enjoyment. She read well;—her voice was exquisitely modulated; her enunciation perfect; Mr. Read forgot to be peevish, and his corrugated forehead lost half its wrinkles. When she ceased, he seemed to have been lulled by a strain of music. The article selected was an editorial leader on political economy, unintelligible and prosy to Ida; but she endeavored not to let this appear. He nodded, and stripped the envelope from another sheet. His eye gleamed, and with an approach to a smile, he showed her six columns of an oration;—a grand effort of the immortal sage of Marshfield. Ida was appalled at the superficies of the solid mass, but she said over to herself, a verse she had lisped at her mother's knee.

and began the terrible undertaking. The preamble over, she became insensibly interested. Her soul-lit face and ringing intonations supplied to the auditor, the actual presence of the orator; he looked and listened until the light failed; then rang for candles. Mrs. Read, returning from her airing, seated herself silently by the fire. It was the prettiest domestic scene that had ever been witnessed in that house; and how little reality was there in its air of home-happiness!

"Is that all?" asked Mr. Read, at supper-time.

"Almost, sir. I can soon finish it. I will not detain you Mrs. Read." But she waited to hear the conclusion. A gruff "Thank you," was Ida's only reward, besides the praise of her conscience; and her tired throat obliged her to refuse Charley his favorite song that night, but she did not repent. She volunteered her services whenever she knew that there were new books or journals, and at length, the latest intelligence was distasteful, unless it came through her lips. It was a selfish gratification; and she did not delude herself with illusions of personal attachment. She strove to live for the benefit and pleasure of her fellow-beings; to leave her interest and ease out of sight; and she could not have been in a better school. The woman's heart was not still. There were moments of weariness and longing, and passionate regrets. The soul, refusing the realities, which made up the sum of every-day duty, pined for the remembered "Dream Land;"—its retreat, and the scene of its holiday revels;—and when the aching and thirst were at their height, it was a trial to smile at a caress from Mrs. Dana, or a friendly act of Charley's—dear and thoughtful brother! when she could have rested her tired head upon the kind bosom, and wept her life away—but she did smile, and bore up bravely until God gave her strength to rise above the weakness.

The Sabbath was a season of delight. A band of little girls watched eagerly for her at Sabbath-school. Inclement indeed must the day be, that saw their form vacant; for she was always at her post, and regarded snow and rain as minor hindrances when her flock nestled closely to "dear Miss Ida." No class loved their teacher and their Bible so well as hers; her co-laborers said she had a secret spell, by which she won and governed them; and she had,—for she was ever mindful that she had another account to render than her report to the Superintendent, and prayed that it might be—"Those whom Thou gavest me, I have kept, and none of them is lost." She loved her pastor; but her acquaintance with him was slight. He visited her at stated times, and esteemed her an "amiable girl, with a creditable fund of general information;" he "could not know the exercises of all his members;" and that a woman whose life was so uncheckered, should have any difficulties and sorrows, but such as are incidental to the experience of every Christian, never crossed his brain. But he was a faithful expounder of the Scriptures; and if he did not remark the changeful light of the eyes, which never released him from the text to the "Amen" of his discourse;—she felt that consolations and advice so applicable, must be meant for her; and remembered him in her orisons, as a Shepherd who cared for his sheep, and selected for each, food convenient for him. She resolved repeatedly, to thank him for his fidelity; but her courage melted when the opportunity arrived; and she would rebuke the vanity that bred the desire. She read that in the primitive church, "those who loved the Lord, spake often to one another;" and imagined, in her simplicity, that such intercourse would be of mutual comfort and profit; yet a seal was upon her mouth, and she waited and wished in vain, for a word in the conversation of her brethren, which would dissolve it. It was strange that she could speak freely and heartily to Carry and to Charley, and be restrained by the presence of those, who had tasted like joys—were bound upon the same pilgrimage as herself.

There was an exception—a minister from another State, with whom she once dined at Mr. Dana's; a merry-hearted, whole-souled man, whose store of anecdote and pleasantry enlivened the company at table;—and after dinner, gathering from a passing remark, that she was a professing Christian, he sought her out; and while the rest were busy about other matters, they were talking of the "peace which passeth understanding," and the home in preparation for them;—not with austere gravity, but, easily and happily, as befitted a topic so inspiriting. They separated—not to meet again in time; and Ida went on her way, cheered and strengthened by the interview, and hoping to thank him in heaven, for the seed he had sowed by the wayside—not in the Scriptural sense of the term.

Mr. Read's disease assumed a chronic type. Some days well enough to transact business in person,—then relapsing, in consequence of trifling exposure or change of weather, his existence was a series of anxieties and sufferings. Ida did not know how she became his nurse; Josephine would not endure his petulance, and her retorts exasperated him; and his wife was too deep in the vortex of fashionable life to waste many minutes upon him; it was unjust and unfeeling to abandon him to the care of menials; and as with her reading, what was a favor, voluntarily offered, came to be regarded as a duty, expected and unrequited. The Danas objected to this thankless sacrifice; but she persisted. It was during one of his worst spells, that an incident occurred, which she did not heed at the time, but when recalled by subsequent events, was fraught with meaning. It was in the evening; and she was on her way to the dining-room, to order a cup of tea for the invalid, when the light streaming through a crack in the parlor-door suggested the probability that the servant she was in quest of, was lighting the lamps in there. She pushed the door open. Mrs. Read was in the middle of the room, her face averted, and her arm extended in repulsion or denial, towards a tall, dark man, who was speaking in a low, excited tone. "'Forget!' I do not forget that circumstances are not what they were then!" was all that Ida heard, as she retired hastily and unseen. As she passed through the entry, she caught a noise, like the rustle of drapery, but supposed it to be the waving of her dress in the wind. Mr. Read was in agony; and Ida sent to request Dr. Ballard's immediate presence. The messenger's steps were not cold upon the stairs, when the sick man tormented himself with impatience for the physician's arrival.

"If the servant had a pass, it was not signed—if it was signed, he had lost it—if he had lost it, Ballard would wait to eat his supper, before he came. I wish he had this shooting fire through his limbs! It would put some speed into his lazy body! Ah! there he is!"

It was Mrs. Read, who meeting the servant with the tea, and hearing of her husband's state, had taken it from him. Ida, preoccupied as she was, noticed that she was pale and agitated. Her voice too, was tremulous, and had a cadence that might have been mistaken for tenderness.

"I grieve to see you so much worse. Drink this, it may relieve you," she said, slipping her hand under his pillow to raise his head. Ida sprang forward to arrest the movement. He was suffering excruciating pain in his neck; and frantic at its augmentation by this change of position, he dashed the cup to the floor, with a shocking oath.

"You want to kill me! I've seen that for a long time; and then you can flaunt to your heart's content. You can marry whom you please, and make him rich with my money, like the shameless wretch you are!" he yelled, distractedly.

The smothered fire leaped high—the dark eye blazed with wrath, but she uttered not a sound, as she turned from him. Ida had never seen such a look in mortal face, and wild with fear of, she know not what, darted after her, and overtook her in the dressing-room.

"Oh! do not! do not!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around the stately form.

"Do not what?" said the lady, trying to unlock her fingers. Ida held her fast.

"Oh! the horrible thing that is in your thoughts! He is mad with pain—he did not mean—did not think what he did. He says as hard things to me, to every one—but he loves you! he does love you!" and dropping her head upon the lady's breast, she sobbed like a child. The haughty woman stood irresolute—passive in the tenacious grasp of the over-excited girl.

"He drove me from him—struck me!" she said, in thick accents. "Why should I stay?"

It was rather a soliloquy than a question, and Ida reiterated, "He did not mean it! he loves you!"

"Do you love him?" inquired the lady, lifting her face, and gazing piercingly into it.

"I pity him," said Ida.

"Do you hate him?" she asked, more energetically.

"No, I hate no one."

"Yet you have cause."

"I try to forgive."

"You do not hate him!" repeated Mrs. Read; and again to herself, she added, "I do!"

Ida let her go. "I pity him!" she said, with mournful earnestness, "but I pity you more! doomed to a life of falsehood and misery! Heaven pity you as I do."

"Stay!" said Mrs. Read, as she would have gone back to the chamber. "Do you despise me utterly? Am I lost?"

"'Lost!' no—while life and reason last, there may be room for repentance."

Repentance! what had she, so queenly in her pride and beauty, to do with repentance? yet the words seemed to strike her. Mr. Read's querulous tones called "Ida!" "I must go," she said. "Will you come?"

"Not now—presently."

The patient was slumbering heavily under the influence of the medicine Dr. Ballard prescribed, when his wife rejoined her assistant nurse—lofty and unimpressible. She regarded the sleeper long and fixedly. His hair was nearly white, and his features pinched by sickness, but there was no softening of compassion in the rigid lines of her face. Setting her chair into the shade, she was speechless and motionless for hours. They watched him together all night; exchanging only brief remarks as to his situation, and the remedies to be employed. He rallied from this seizure, and Ida was as far from the brilliant worldling as before.

An unexpected event attracted her from the retirement in which her charitable functions had secluded her. Celestia Pratt was married! and to Ellen's chagrin, to a cousin of the Morris family. He was good-looking, ambitious and poor;—she susceptible a "Representative's" daughter, and rich. He wrote to his aunt that they would take Richmond in the wedding-tour; and she was obliged, nolens volens, to give them a party. Ida was disinclined to attend; but Ellen's solicitations conquered her reluctance. Mr. Cranleigh, the groom, was gentlemanly, even handsome, and accepted the customary greetings with as much complacency, as though his wife were not, as Ellen groaned to Ida—"Celestia, unmitigated Celestia!"

"A penny for your thoughts!" said Ida, tapping Charley's arm with her fan.

"I was thinking what falsehoods geologists tell us about the thickness of the crust of the earth, and how many years the mines of Peru have been worked."

"A profound subject for deep meditation, but I am at a loss—"

"Why, allowing a thousand brides a week in the civilized world, (and there are quadruple that number,) according to my rough computation, the miners ought to be within hail of the Chinese, or whatever nation is the antipodes of the Peruvians, by this time."

"Their kindred craft, the jewellers, have been called upon by the Celestia-ls," said Mr. Thornton.

"'Pon my word!" remarked Pemberton to Josephine, "I have heard of men who married 'for pretty,' but it's my opinion, Cranleigh married for ugly."

Josephine laughed, but her attention was absorbed by some object in another part of the room. "You know everybody," said she; "who is that gentleman talking with the bride?"

He knew everybody, and this must be nobody. He had certainly seen him somewhere before—it might have been at Newport—or perhaps in New Orleans, yet he could not call his name. Why did she inquire?

"A question by the way—she was not curious. He had a foreign air, and she fancied might be one of Mr. Pemberton's friends—he had so many abroad."

He had, and it would be awkward not to recollect him, if he should speak.

"There's Cranleigh! he knows!"

The stranger's name was Ashlin, an early acquaintance of Mrs. Cranleigh's, and later from the West Indies.

"Had he resided there long?" Miss Read asked.

"Two years—nearly three, indeed."

Mr. Ashlin was graceful and distinguÉ, and Ida was attacked by an unaccountable curiosity. She interrogated the bride.

"What handsome man was that, you were conversing with, awhile ago, Celestia?"

Her face was broad with smiles. "Law! why Mr. Cranleigh, my husband, to be sure! Haven't you been introduced? Here! Mr. Cran—"

"Oh! don't!" said Ida. "I know him—don't interrupt him! I alluded to that tall gentleman by the folding-doors."

"That's Mr. Ashlin. He used to live close by Pa's; and then his uncle died out in Cuba or West India, I forget which—and he went off there, where he's been three years, rolling in money they say. He's mighty smart too—I'm 'most afraid of him. Don't he look like a-a-cannibal!" said Mrs. Cranleigh, some reminiscence of New Zealand history coming to her help.

"His is a dark beauty, certainly," replied Ida, hiding a smile. "I should say if he had not lived abroad, that I had seen his face somewhere else."

"You needn't be setting your cap!" retorted the bride, spitefully, "He won't be so easy caught as that Mr. Euston, you all think such an Adolphus. He's engaged."

"Ah! who is the fortunate lady?"

"A Miss Courtland,—or some such name;—that is—he was engaged once, but, seems to me, I've heard that he jilted her, and she married a rich old man for his 'tin.'"

"What did you call her? Speak lower!" said Ida.

"Law! you're scared! what ails you?"

"Nothing—nothing!" laughing. "You had as well be silent about this Mr. Ashlin,—he has quick ears, and gentleman do not admire gossiping ladies. You have a splendid bouquet—is this Mr. Cranleigh's taste?"

And while the history of the courtship, from their meeting at the "Sulphur Springs" to the present glorification, was pouring upon her tympanum, she was arguing away her unjustifiable suspicions. His general appearance was that of the gentleman she had a glimpse of in Mr. Read's parlor; and Mrs. Read's behaviour that evening was so extraordinary as to give colour to the story;—But Celestia always garbled the simplest narrations, murdering names and jumbling facts, until it was next to impossible to arrive at the truth. A three years' absence, too! How nonsensical she was! Her fears returned, however, with reinforcements, when he attached himself to Mrs. Read's cordon of admirers. These were not all young men. Elderly gentlemen, who had not lost their eye for fair faces, and taste for repartee, were recipients of as gracious welcomes as were apportioned to their youthful rivals; and sagacious damsels, of doubtful belleship and charms, crept beneath the wings of her popularity, large enough to shelter a female favorite or so. Mr. Ashlin entered the outmost precincts of this circle, and by imperceptible advances penetrated to the centre of attraction. Mrs. Read flushed slightly, with surprise or displeasure, as he established himself by her side; but nothing intimidated, he presently usurped the management of the conversation; holding up some to ridicule so cleverly that they had only themselves to blame, and did not suspect his agency; flattering others, until they dropped off like surfeited leeches; and angering some so openly, that Ida, who was near enough to get an inkling of what was transpiring, was assured that he was playing for a rich stake. His purpose was effected; he had a clear field; and with no alteration of manner, unless a shade of respect moderated his gay insouciance, he continued his attentions. No place is better for a confidential confabulation than a crowded room, if the parties understand how to conduct it. The initiated would have surmised from an occasional gleam of the eye, and the varying expression of that most uncontrollable of features, the mouth, that something more important than sugared nothings was upon the tapis; but to the purblind merrymakers, as a body, Mrs. Read was examining a portfolio of prints, and her companion, a travelled gentleman, descanting upon "High Art" in "the States," as contrasted with the love for poetry, painting and music, which, it was said, prevailed in gay, pleasure-loving Havana.

Ida was surprised that Mr. Ashlin requested a presentation to herself, and still more at the pertinacity with which he cultivated the acquaintance he must see she did not desire. He triumphed over her prejudice, inveterate as she had thought it. His air of deep interest—the admiration, too respectful to be conveyed in words, which spoke in every look and action, were dangerous flattery, and Ida was not invulnerable. But in reviewing the events of the evening, distrust obscured the pleasing recollection of his captivating address and the magic of his eloquence. Why was it bestowed upon her—a stranger, and so little attractive in her appearance? Why, especially, should he have asked permission to call? He knew Mrs. Read, and to her the application should, in etiquette, have been made. There was a vague apprehension hanging over her—a foreboding, for which she could assign no cause. He called, as he had promised, "at an early day." The family were collected in Mr. Read's room, when his card was brought to the lady of the house.

"Mr. Ashlin," she read. "Whom did he ask for, John?"

"The ladies, ma'am."

"Very well. Josephine, I will thank you and Miss Ida to receive him, and excuse me."

"Excuse me, if you please!" answered Josephine, bridling. "I scarcely know the gentleman, and do not covet the honour."

"Miss Ida?" said Mrs. Read, inquiringly.

"Why not go down with me, ma'am? Are you indisposed?"

"You need not say so—I am engaged. I really wish it," she added, for Ida was undecided.

"Then I will go," said she, with a sensation of infinite relief.

Josephine followed her out. "Beware, my lady-like Tartuffe!" hissed she, sneering in baffled malignity. "You are mixing yourself up in a scrape which will not reflect much credit upon the elect."

Her fiendish laugh was echoing after her, as Ida gained the parlor.

Mr. Ashlin did not appear abashed or disappointed, upon receipt of the apologies. He bowed, with a civil regret, and seemed to forget that there were other ladies in the house or in the world, than the one he was entertaining.

Ida's disagreeable oppression returned once, at his smile, when, in reply to his inquiry, she stated that the portrait in the niche opposite him, was Mr. Read's.

He got up to inspect it. To Ida, he was measuring himself with it, as he straightened his Apollo figure, and expanded his full chest.

"A good painting!" he observed. "How long since it was taken?"

"Two years."

"The pencil of time is the best test of the value of a picture—to some it is a destroyer,—it beautifies others. An excellent piece of work!"—still scanning it. "Is the likeness correct?"

"Uncommonly—or was, when it was painted. Mr. Read looks older and thinner now, that his health is impaired."

Again that sinister smile! but he said nothing more.

He called again, with a friend, an habituÉ of the house. It was evening, and Mrs. Read saw them. The length of his stay in Richmond was indefinite;—they were not sure but each visit was his last; and he, keeping up the uncertainty, came frequently, at the hours which suited him best. Josephine, succumbing seemingly, to the power of his wizard wand, freely declared her dread of his departure; Ida felt as much when with him, and revoked it, secretly, as soon as her eyes recovered from their dazzlement. Mrs. Read treated him, as she did her other visitors, and bore no part in the chorus of laudations chaunted in his absence. When Mr. Read was well enough to see company, he fell an easy conquest to the arts of the inimitable stranger. "He was"—he protested, "a better doctor than Ballard. An hour of his society was more beneficial to him, than the apothecary's entire stock of drugs."

His birth-day was near at hand, and he determined to invite his friends to rejoice with him, at his partial restoration to health. It was to be an unostentatious affair—a dinner, and no ladies but those belonging to the family. Mr. Read was as impatient as a child at its first tea-party.

"They are late, Helen! they are not coming!" he said every few minutes, while they were awaiting the guests. He was working himself into a passion, when the welcome ring appeased him.

"Mr. Copeland!" called the stentorian lungs of the footman; and Mrs. Read was as white, as if the hand of Death had smitten her.

"How are you all?" said Richard, in his joyous, rattling style. "Miss Ross, I am delighted to meet you—Miss Josephine, I will not disparage your blooming cheeks by asking after your health,—and you, Mr. Read, have been practicing upon our fears, by stories of illness—hasn't he, Helen—you are ill!" he said, brought to a full stop by her pallor.

"Ill! you are well—are you not?" said Mr. Read, in alarm.

"Well! yes! what notions you have, Richard!" and the color flowed back. "When did you come in?—down, I mean, and how are they at home?"

"'Home' is too bridish for a demure matron; but they are well, and sent love. I arrived this morning, and should have been in before, but for business."

"Don't leave the room, Helen. Somebody will come while you are out. Send John for what you want;" said Mr. Read.—She was slipping out through the back parlor.

"I will be gone but a second," she answered; and Mr. Read was still telling Richard how opportune his visit was when she returned. She was the collected, urbane hostess, only an eager glance at each arrival, betrayed nervousness or expectation. Mr. Read watched the door, also; and his displeasure at the tardiness of his favorite was audibly vented.

"Helen! why don't Mr. Ashlin come?" he said, in Ida's hearing. Ears less acute would not have distinguished his wife's reply.

"Hush! these people are jealous of your preference already. He will be here before long."

Ida had mislaid her handkerchief, or not brought it into the room; and Richard offered to favor her retreat by a journey into the next room, to look at some green-house plants. Leaving him bending over them, she ran up-stairs, found the missing article, and was hurrying down, when a ring arrested her upon the lower landing. Thinking to let the visitor enter before her, she stepped back out of sight.

"Mr. Ashlin, I beg your pardon, sir," said John, "my mistress told me to give you this before you went into the drawing-room, sir."

Mr. Ashlin paused—she judged, to read a note.

"All right!" said he. "Tell your mistress, I regret exceedingly that I am called into the country, on account of a friend's danger, and cannot comply with my engagement to Mr. Read this evening. Deliver the message as I have given it. This is for yourself, John. Good day."

"Thank you, sir. Good afternoon."

Ida's limbs shook beneath her. She had not time to unravel the mystery—for mystery she knew it to be;—Mrs. Read's fright at her brother's entrance; her incoherence and exit; the strangely worded message; the bribe to the servant—swam in a chaotic medley through her mind. She was sick with terror, until warned to conceal her emotions by Richard's saying that "Helen's queer symptoms had become epidemic." Partaker of the alarms of guilt, by her knowledge of the sin,—averse as she was to participation in its concealment, she was possessed with the idea, that to her was committed the work of blinding Richard. While her ears were alert to every sentence uttered around her, and she was quaking at the least approach to a mention of the absentee, she aimed to monopolize Mr. Copeland's sense and thoughts. She anticipated their quitting the table as a blessed change; then a cold agony came over her, at the remembrance that the gentlemen would remain. Discovery, in this case, was inevitable. His wife's caution would not restrain Mr. Read from pledging Mr. Ashlin's health. She thought of bantering Richard into withdrawing with the ladies;—it would be too bold—too forward. He would obey, but his respect for her would be diminished;—as a final alternative, she must venture it—but was there no other?

"Our patient does us credit, Miss Ida." Her next neighbor was Dr. Ballard.

"Does you credit, Doctor. I am only your custodian—a daring one, however, for I have a petition to submit. Will it not be imprudent for Mr. Read to remain long at table, after the cloth is removed? His system is still inflammatory." Her conscience reproved her for the deception, although she spoke the truth, but the case was desperate. The doctor's professional cap was on instantly.

"Unquestionably, my child!—unquestionably! well thought of, Miss Ida! We must guard against a relapse. How shall we get him into the parlor?"

Ida consulted Richard, who referred the case to Charley and returned her the reply, that if the ladies would delay their departure, a little longer than was customary,—not to startle those who loved to tarry at the wine, he would concert with most of the company to rise at the same time. Charley was at the helm, and Ida could safely have slept upon her watch. Mr. Read demurred at an infringement upon banquetting laws, but the seceders gallantly insisted upon attending their fair leaders; and the most disaffected had not courage to stand their ground. It was a weary, weary evening to Ida; she looked and felt wretchedly ill, after the guests dispersed. Richard looked in again, after saying "good night."

"I have purchased a buggy to-day," said he, to Ida; "and my pet horse is in town. Shall I have the pleasure of driving you out in the morning?"

She assented.

"At what hour?" he asked.

"I wonder what has happened, that Ashlin stayed away!" said Mr. Read.

Richard started violently. "Ashlin!" he echoed with a fiery look at his sister. "Ashlin—Ashlin;" he repeated, sensible of his imprudence. "I have heard the name—who is he?"

"An old friend of your sister's," replied Josephine.

Richard's face was profoundly meditative. "A small man—is he not? red-haired, stoops in the shoulders, and wears spectacles?"

Mr. Read spoke up indignantly. "A magnificent fellow! gentlemanly, intelligent, and one of the best hearts in the world."

"I do not know him then!" said Richard, emphatically. "Now I think of it, the red head's name may have been Ashton. Say eleven o'clock,"—to Ida—"it will be pleasantly warm then."

"It will suit me," she rejoined, trembling before his gaze.

He was punctual to the hour. Mr. Read hobbled to the door to admire his "turn-out." To him, Richard was lively and friendly as usual, but he refused his sister's invitation to come in, and his bow, as his horse sprang off at the loosened rein, was to him. They left the city by the shortest route. Beyond the houses, Richard slackened their headlong speed.

"Miss Ross!" he said, abruptly facing her, "I have classed you among the limited number of your sex, who are upright and truthful. Within twelve hours past, I have doubted you. You are under no personal obligations to answer my questions;—but as a brother—for the honor of my family, I demand of you, all that you know of this Ashlin."

"Which is very little. I never saw him until Mr. Cranleigh's marriage, when he was introduced to me at Mrs. Morris'."

"By whom? by Helen?"

"By Mrs. Morris, herself. He made a party call, and has continued to visit the house."

"Artful as ever!" he said, through his shut teeth. "Does Mrs. Read see him?"

"Yes; and Mr. Read."

"The old blinkard! Does Helen receive him as your friend or as hers?"

"As the friend of the family."

"Tush! I might commend your diplomacy, Miss Ross, if I were not so thoroughly in earnest. It is clear you will not advance a step, without knowing why you are questioned. Having more confidence in you, than you have in me, I will set you an example of candor. Ashlin and my sister were betrothed when he was at college. We were 'chums.' He is ardent—generous in some of his impulses, but as I perceived, even with my boyishly irregular notions, lax in principle. Helen was not ignorant of my opinion, and with a woman's faith and perseverance, set herself to break it down. You do not know her as she was then—high-spirited, proud and passionate, but tractable as a child to the voice of affection. Her will was more ungovernable than mine, and she almost reconciled me to her choice. He had just completed his course at the University, when the death of an uncle put him in possession of a valuable estate in Cuba. The marriage, which was to have taken place immediately, was postponed for twelve months. Meantime, he was to visit his property, and prepare for a permanent residence in the West Indies. The year elapsed—he did not return—and suddenly his letters were suspended. Helen was insanely trustful; he might be ill or dead—dying, or in the grave, he was true! Her romantic independent disposition led her to the formation of a mad project—to search for him in person, since she could learn nothing in any other way. I could not dissuade her;—she made but one concession,—that I might accompany her. The object and direction of our expedition was known only to ourselves. We were ready—a day before that fixed for starting, a letter came! He was enamored of an Italian cantatrice; 'designed marrying her, if Helen would liberate him;—if not, he would redeem his early pledge to her.' She was ill for weeks; and upon what, I believed was her death-bed, she extorted from me a vow not to revenge her. She 'should have foreseen how it would end,' she said, 'blind, confiding dupe, that she was!' She arose—a hardened, I think, sometimes, a heartless woman of the world:—with her trust in him, had perished her faith in God and man; an unfeminine panting for wealth and distinction filling its place. Chance threw this gold-fish, Read, in her net; and she clutched him. I had sorrowed for, and commiserated her until then; but so sordid, so wickedly weak was this act, that I reproached her angrily. I said it sprang from wounded vanity, and a mean desire to glitter, a hollow-hearted, tinselled doll in the view of those who would gibe, while pretending to applaud;—that her conduct was as degrading to her, as mortifying to us,—and she bore my vituperations, without attempting to defend herself, 'Richard!' she said, when I had exhausted my indignation, 'better reason with a tornado, than a slighted woman!'

"You regard me as a chattering coxcomb, Miss Ida; but I solemnly declare that I could have gone to the block more resignedly, than I saw my beautiful sister sold to her hoary bridegroom. These were circumstances, with which I could not cope—but the diabolical schemes of this assassin of her peace shall not mature! This is the sad tale—is it quite new to you?"

"In its details;" and she related Celestia's version.

"Which furnished you with a key—you have a clear head, and a woman's wit—have you found no locks that it fitted?"

No reply.

"Did you divine the cause of Helen's embarrassment at my appearance, yesterday?"

"Not at the time."

"But afterwards. He was invited—did she warn him of my being there? If so, do not say it. I can bear your silence better than the truth."

"I can neither deny nor assert, Mr. Copeland. I have imagined many dreadful things, which may have no real existence. You may judge for yourself."

His brow was lighter, when he had heard her unvarnished relation.

"I thank you!" said he, heartily. "We may cicatrize this wound yet. I will see Helen to-night; she expects a reproof; and if she is not what she appears,—refined steel—I will make her feel. I dare not meet Ashlin—but I will write—and if he crosses my path again—." He resumed in a milder tone, "I would crave one more proof of your good-will, but that I fear a refusal."

"Ask it."

"If he renews his visits, will you inform me?"

"No, sir!" said Ida, positively. "The service savors too much of espionage."

"I was afraid you would see it in that light. Miss Read," he continued, scornfully, "would require no persuasion to play the spy. I was near committing myself last night. His name was a galvanic shock."

"I cannot but hope," said Ida, "that our fears have magnified shadows into spectres. We are so prone to shape events after the fashion of our inclinations or forebodings. Do not consider it an impertinent liberty, Mr. Copeland, if I recommend to you to be very gentle in your reprehension of your sister. Callous, self-dependent in semblance, think what her sufferings are, empaled by memory and conscience. Oh! if we had more charity for the tempted!"

"Temptation, sin, suffering! how naturally the words succeed each other!" mused Richard.

"And they are an epitome of all human woe," said Ida "It is a doctrine of mine, that a small proportion of the great aggregate of crime is committed from actual love of sin."

She was gratified at his demeanor towards his sister upon their return. He dined with them, and was markedly attentive to her, combining so much brotherly kindness with a certain deference to her wishes and sentiments, that she struggled with the softness which menaced her proud composure. As they quitted the table, he passed his arm around her waist, and there were tears in the eyes upraised to his. No more auspicious time could occur for the contemplated conversation; and Ida enticed Mr. Read into his reading room, by the lure of an uncut periodical. The words fell from her mouth mechanically—her mind was upon the momentous interview. In the character and life delineated by Richard, she traced, with a thrill, a similarity to her own; the impetuous temper—unmanageable, save when the breath of love sighed over the heart; the blasted hope; the unworthiness of the object of adoration—ah! this bitterest ingredient in the cup of despair was spared her! but the prostration of soul and body; then the heaven-threatening billows of blasphemous misanthropy, and self-abandonment—the parallel was just here—to diverge how widely in the result of the ordeal! one, wilfully completing the ruin of her happiness by perjury—cauterizing her heart with corrodents, that eat away its fevered life; the other, dragging herself, wounded and weary, to the feet of the Good Physician, to be healed, and fed, and sustained by His loving mercy; and the language of Ida's thanksgiving was, "Lord! Thou hast made me to differ!"