An ancient woman there was, who dwelt
In an old gray collage all alone—
She turned her wheel the live long day—
There was music, I ween, in its solemn drone.
As she twisted the flax, the threads of thought
Kept twisting too, dark, mystic threads—
And the tales she told were legends old,
Quaint fancies, woven of lights and shades.

It is said that absence is like death, and that through its softening shadow, faults, and even vices, assume a gentle and unforbidding aspect. But it is not so. Death, the prime minister of God, invests with solemn majesty the individual on whom he impresses his cold, white seal. The weakest, meanest being that ever drew the breath of life is awe-inspiring, wrapped in the mystery of death. It seems as if the invisible spirit might avenge the insult offered to its impassive, deserted companion. But absence has no such commanding power. If the mind has been enthralled by the influence of personal fascination, there is generally a sudden reaction. The judgment, liberated from captivity, exerts its newly recovered strength, and becomes more arbitrary and uncompromising for the bondage it has endured.

Now Bryant Clinton was gone, Mr. Gleason wondered at his own infatuation. No longer spell-bound by the magic of his eye, and the alluring grace of his manners, he could recall a thousand circumstances which had previously made no impression on his mind. He blamed himself for allowing Louis to continue in such close intimacy with one, of whose parentage and early history he knew nothing. He blamed himself still more, for permitting his daughter such unrestricted intercourse with a young man so dangerously attractive. He blamed himself still more, for consenting to the departure of his son with a companion, in whose principles he did not confide, and of whose integrity he had many doubts. Why had he suffered this young man to wind around the household in smooth and shining coils, insinuating himself deeper and deeper into the heart, and binding closer and closer the faculties which might condemn, and the will that might resist his sorcery?

He blushed one moment for his weakness, the next upbraided himself for the harshness of his judgment, for the uncharitableness of his conclusions. The first letter which he received from Louis, did not remove his apprehensions. He said Clinton had changed his plans. He did not intend to return immediately to Virginia, but to travel awhile first, and visit some friends, whom he had neglected for the charming home he had just quitted. Louis dwelt with eloquent diffuseness on the advantages of traveling with such a companion, of the fine opportunity he had of seeing something of the world, after leading the student’s monotonous and secluded life. Enclosed in this letter were bills of a large amount, contracted at college, of whose existence the father was perfectly unconscious. No reference was made to these, save in the postscript, most incoherent in expression, and written evidently with an unsteady hand. He begged his father to forgive him for having forgotten—the word forgotten was partially erased, and neglected substituted in its place—ah! Louis, Louis, you should have said feared to present to him before his departure. He threw himself upon the indulgence of a parent, who he knew would be as ready to pardon the errors, as he was able to understand the temptation to which youth was exposed, when deprived of parental guidance.

The letter dropped from Mr. Gleason’s hand. A dark cloud gathered on his brow. A sharp pain darted through his heart. His son, his ingenuous, noble, high-minded boy had deceived him—betrayed his confidence, and wasted, with the recklessness of a spendthrift, money to which he had no legitimate claims.

When Louis entered college, and during the whole course of his education there, Mr. Gleason had defrayed his necessary expenses, and supplied him liberally with spending money.

“Keep out of debt, my son,” was his constant advice. “In every unexpected emergency apply to me. Debt unnecessarily recurred is both dishonorable and disgraceful. When a boy contracts debts unknown to his parents, they are associated with shame and ruin. Beware of temptation.”

Mr. Gleason was not rich. He was engaged in merchandise, and had an income sufficient for the support of his family, sufficient to supply every want, and gratify every wish within the bounds of reason; but he had nothing to throw away, nothing to scatter broadcast beneath the ploughshare of ruin. He did not believe that Louis had fallen into disobedience and error without a guide in sin. Like Eve, he had been beguiled by a serpent, and he had eaten of the fruit of the tree of forbidden knowledge, whose taste

“Brought death into the world,
And all our woe!”

That serpent must be Clinton, that Lucifer, that son of the morning, that seeming angel of light. Thus, in the excitement of his anger, he condemned the young man, who, after all, might be innocent of all guile, and free from all transgression.

Crushing the papers in his hand, he saw a line which had escaped his eye before. It was this—

“I cannot tell you where to address me, as we are now on the wing. I shall write again soon.”

“So he places himself beyond the reach of admonition and recall,” thought Mr. Gleason. “Oh! Louis, had your mother lived, how would her heart have been wrung by the knowledge of your aberration from rectitude! And how will the kind and noble being who fills that mother’s place in our affections and home, mourn over her weak and degenerate boy.”

Yes! she did mourn, but not without hope. She had too much faith in the integrity of Louis to believe him capable of deliberate transgression. She knew his ardent temperament his convivial spirit, and did not think it strange that he should be led into temptation. He must not withdraw his confidence, because it had been once betrayed. Neither would she suffer so dark a cloud of suspicion to rest upon Clinton. It was unjust to suspect him, when he was surrounded by so many young, and doubtless, evil companions. She regretted Clinton’s sojourn among them, since it had had so unhappy an influence on Mittie, but it was cowardly to plunge a dagger into the back of one on whose face their hospitable smiles had so lately beamed. We have said that she had a small property of her own. She insisted upon drawing on this for the amount necessary to settle the bills of Louis. She had reserved it for the children’s use, and perhaps when Louis was made aware of the source whence pecuniary assistance came, he would blush for the drain, and shame would restrain him from future extravagance. Mr. Gleason listened, hoped and believed. The cloud lighted up, and if it did not entirely pass away, glimpses of sunshine were seen breaking through.

And this was the woman whom Mittie disdained to honor with the title of mother!

Helen had recovered from the double shock she had received the night previous to Clinton’s departure, but she was not the same Helen that she was before. Her childhood was gone. The flower leaves of her heart unfolded, not by the soft, genial sunshine, but torn open by the whirlwind’s power. Never more could she meet Arthur Hazleton with the innocent freedom which had made their intercourse so delightful. If he took her hand, she trembled and withdrew it. If she met his eye, she blushed and turned away her glance—that eye, which though it flashed not with the fires of passion, had such depth, and strength, and intensity in its expression. Her embarrassment was contagious, and constraint and reserve took the place of confidence and ingenuousness; like the semi-transparent drapery over a beautiful picture, which suffers the lineaments to be traced, while the warm coloring and brightness of life are chilled and obscured.

The sisters were as much estranged as if they were the inmates of different abodes. Mrs. Gleason had prepared a room for Helen adjoining her own, resolved she should be removed as far as possible from Mittie’s dagger tongue. Thus Mittie was left to the solitude she courted, and which no one seemed disposed to disturb. She remained the most of her time in her own chamber, seldom joining the family except at table, where she appeared more like a stranger than a daughter or a sister. She seemed to take no interest in any thing around her, nor did she seek to inspire any. She looked paler than formerly, and a purplish shade dimmed the brilliancy of her dazzling eyes.

“You look pale, my daughter,” her father would sometimes say. “I fear you are not well.”

“I am perfectly well,” she would answer, with a manner so cold and distant, sympathy was at once repelled.

“Will you not sit with us?” Mrs. Gleason would frequently ask, as she and Helen drew near the blazing fire, with their work-baskets or books, for winter was now abroad in the land. “Will you not read to us, or with us?”

“I prefer being in my own room,” was the invariable answer; and usually at night, when the curtains were let down, and the lamps lighted in the apartment, warm and glowing with the genialities and comforts of home, the young doctor would come in and occupy Mittie’s vacant seat. Notwithstanding the comparative coldness and reserve of Helen’s manners, his visits became more and more frequent. He seemed reconciled to the loss of the ingenuous, confiding child, since he had found in its stead the growing charms of womanhood.

Arthur was a fine reader. His voice had that minor key which touches the chords of tenderness and feeling—that voice so sweet at the fireside, so adapted to poetry and all deep and earnest thoughts. He did not read on like a machine, without pausing to make remark or criticism, but his beautiful, eloquent commentaries came in like the symphonies of an organ. He drew forth the latent enthusiasm of Helen, who, forgetting herself and Mittie’s withering accusations, expressed her sentiments with a grace, simplicity and fervor peculiar to herself. At the commencement of the evening she generally took her sewing from the basket, and her needle would flash and fly like a shooting arrow, but gradually her hands relaxed, the work fell into her lap, and yielding to the combined charms of genius and music, the divine music of the human voice, she gave herself up completely to the rapture of drinking in

“Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held her breath to hear.”If Arthur lifted his eyes from the page, which he had a habit of doing, he was sure to encounter a glance of bright intelligence and thrilling sensibility, instantaneously withdrawn, and then he often lost his place, skipped over a paragraph, or read the same sentence a second time, while that rich mantling glow, so seldom seen on the cheek of manhood, stole slowly over his face.

These were happy evenings, and Helen could have exclaimed with little Frank in the primer, “Oh! that winter would last forever!” And yet there were times when she as well as her parents was oppressed with a weight of anxious sorrow that was almost insupportable, on account of Louis. He came not, he wrote not—and the only letter received from him had excited the most painful apprehensions for his moral safety. It contained shameful records of his past deviations from rectitude, and judging of the present by the past, they had every reason to fear that he had become an alien from virtue and home. Mr. Gleason seldom spoke of him, but his long fits of abstraction, the gloom of his brow, and the inquietude of his eye, betrayed the anxiety and grief rankling within.

Helen knew not the contents of her brother’s letter, nor the secret cause of grief that preyed on her father’s mind, but his absence and silence were trials over which she openly and daily mourned with deep and increasing sorrow.

“We shall hear from him to-morrow. He will come to-morrow.” This was the nightly lullaby to her disappointed and murmuring heart.

Mittie likewise repeated to herself the same refrain “He will come to-morrow. He will write to-morrow.” But it was not of Louis that the prophecy was breathed. It was of another, who had become the one thought.

Helen had not forgotten her old friend Miss Thusa, whom the rigors of winter confined more closely than ever to her lonely cabin. Almost every day she visited her, and even if the ground were covered with snow, and icicles hung from the trees, there was a path through the woods, printed with fairy foot-tracks, that showed where Helen had walked. Mr. Gleason supplied the solitary spinster with wood ready out for the hearth, had her cottage banked with dark red tan, and furnished her with many comforts and luxuries. He never forgot her devoted attachment to his dead wife, who had commended to his care and kindness the lone woman on her dying bed. Mrs. Gleason frequently accompanied Helen in her visits, and as Miss Thusa said, “always came with full hands and left a full heart behind her.” Helen sometimes playfully asked her to tell her the history of the wheel so long promised, but she put her off with a shake of the head, saying—“she should hear it by and by, when the right time was at hand.”

“But when is the right time, Miss Thusa?” asked Helen. “I begin to think it is to-morrow.”

“To-morrow never comes,” replied Miss Thusa, solemnly, “but death does. When his footsteps cross the old stile and tramp over the mossy door-stones, I’ll tell you all about that ancient machine. It won’t do any good till then. You are too young yet. I feel better than I did in autumn, and may last longer than I thought I should—but, perhaps, when the ground thaws in the spring the old tree will loosen and fall—or break off suddenly near the root. I have seen such things in my day.”

“Oh! Miss Thusa,” said Helen, “I never want to hear any thing about it, if its history is to be bought so dear—indeed I do not.”

“Only if you should marry, child, before I die,” continued Miss Thusa, musingly, “you shall know then. It is not very probable that such will be the case; but it is astonishing how young girls shoot up into womanhood, now-a-days.”

“It will be a long time before I shall think of marrying, Miss Thusa,” answered Helen, laughing. “I believe I will live as you do, in a cottage of my own, with my wheel for companion and familiar friend.”

“It is not such as you that are born to live alone,” said the spinster, passing her hand lovingly over Helen’s fair, warm cheek. “You are a love-vine that must have something to grow upon. No, no—don’t talk in that way. It don’t sound natural. It don’t come from the heart. Now I was made to be by myself. I never saw the man I wanted to live one day with—much less all the days of my life. They may say this is sour grapes, and call me an old maid, but I don’t care for that; I must have my own way, and I know it is a strange one; and there never was a man created that didn’t want to have his. You laugh, child. I hope you will never find it out to your cost. But you havn’t any will of your own; so it will be all as it should be, after all.”

“Oh, yes I have, Miss Thusa; I like to have my own way as well as any one—when I think I am right.”

“What makes your cheeks redden so, and your heart flutter like a bird caught in a snare?” cried the spinster, looking thoughtfully, almost sorrowfully, into Helen’s soft, loving, hazel eyes. “That step doesn’t cross my threshold so often for nothing. You would know it in an army of ten thousand.”

The door opened and Arthur Hazleton entered. The day was cold, and a comfortable fire blazed in the chimney. The fire-beams that were reflected from Helen’s glowing cheek might account for its burning rose, for it even gave a warmer tint to Miss Thusa’s dark, gray form. Arthur drew his chair near Helen, who as usual occupied a little stool in the corner.

“What magnificent strings of coral you have, Miss Thusa?” said he, looking up to a triple garland of red peppers, strung on some of her own unbleached linen thread, and suspended over the fire-place. “I suppose they are more for ornament than use.”

“I never had any thing for ornament in my life,” said Miss Thusa. “I supply the whole neighborhood with peppers; and I do think a drink of pepper tea helps one powerfully to bear the winter’s cold.”

“I think I must make you my prime minister, Miss Thusa,” said the young doctor, “for I scarcely ever visit a patient, that I don’t find some traces of your benevolence, in the shape of balmy herbs and medicinal shrubs. How much good one can do in the world if they only think of it!”

“It is little good that I’ve ever done,” cried the spinster. “All my comfort is that I havn’t done a great deal of harm.”

Opening the door of a closet, at the right of the chimney, she stooped to lift a log of wood, but Arthur springing up, anticipated her movement, and replenished the already glowing hearth.

“You keep glorious fires, Miss Thusa,” said he, retreating from the hot sparkles that came showering on the hearth, and the magnificent blaze that roared grandly up the chimney.

“It is her father that sends me the wood—and if it isn’t his daughter that is warmed by my fire-side, let the water turn to ice on these bricks.”

“And now, Miss Thusa,” said the young doctor, “while we are enjoying this hospitable warmth, tell us one of those good old-fashioned stories, Helen used to love so much to hear. It is a long time since I have heard one—and I am sure Helen will thank me for the suggestion.”

“I ought to be at my wheel, instead of fooling with my tongue,” replied Miss Thusa, jerking her spectacles down on the bridge of her nose. “I shan’t earn the salt of my porridge at this rate; besides there’s too much light; somehow or other, I never could feel like reciting them in broad daylight. There must be a sort of a shadow, to make me inspired.”

“Please Miss Thusa, oblige the doctor this time,” pleaded Helen. “I’ll come and spin all day to-morrow for you, and send you a sack of salt beside.”

“Set a kitten to spinning!” exclaimed Miss Thusa, her grim features relaxing into a smile—putting at the same time her wheel against the wall, and seating herself in the corner opposite to Helen.

“Thank you,” cried Helen, “I knew you would not refuse. Now please tell us something gentle and beautiful—something that will make us better and happier. Ghosts, you know, never appear till darkness comes. The angels do.”

Miss Thusa, sat looking into the fire, with a musing, dreamy expression, or rather on the ashes, which formed a gray bed around the burning coals. Her thoughts were, however, evidently wandering inward, through the dim streets and shadowy aisles of that Herculaneum of the soul—memory.

Arthur laid his hand with an admonishing motion on Helen, whose lips parted to speak, and the trio sat in silence for a few moments, waiting the coming inspiration. It has been so often said that we do not like to repeat the expression, but it really would have been a study for a painter—that old, gray room (for the walls being unpainted were of the color of Miss Thusa’s dress;) the antique, brass-bound wheel, the scarlet tracery over the chimney, and the three figures illuminated by the flame-light of the blazing chimney. It played, that flame-light, with rich, warm lustre on Helen’s soft, brown hair and roseate cheek, quivered with purplish radiance among Arthur’s darker locks—and lighted up with a sunset glow, Miss Thusa’s hoary tresses.

“Gentle and beautiful!” repeated the oracle. “Yes! every thing seems beautiful to the young. If I could remember ever feeling young, I dare say beautiful memories would come back to me. ’Tis very strange, though, that the older I grow, the pleasanter are the pictures that are reflected on my mind. The way grows smoother and clearer. I suppose it is like going out on a dark night—at first you can hardly see the hand before you, but as you go groping along, it lightens up more and more.”

She paused, looked from Arthur Hazleton to Helen, then from Helen to Arthur, as if she were endeavoring to embue her spirit with the grace and beauty of youth.

“I remember a tale,” she resumed, “which I heard or read, long, long ago—which perhaps I’ve never told. It is about a young Prince, who was heir to a great kingdom, somewhere near the place where the garden of Eden once was. When the King, his father, was on his death bed, he called his son to him, and told him that he was going to die.

“‘And now, my son,’ he said, ‘remember my parting words. I leave you all alone, without father or mother, brother or sister—without any one to love or love you. Last night I had a dream, and you know God’s will was made known in dreams, to holy men of old. There came, in my dream, an aged man, with a beard as white as ermine, that hung down like a mantle over his breast, with a wand in his right hand, and stood beside my bed.

“‘Hear my words,’ he exclaimed, in a solemn voice, ‘and tell them to your son. When you are dead and gone, let him gird himself for a long pilgrimage. If he stay here, he will be turned into a marble statue. To avert this doom, he must travel through the world till he finds a young maiden’s warm, living heart—and the maiden must be fair and good, and be willing to let the knife enter her bosom, and her heart be taken bleeding thence. And then he must travel farther still, till a white dove shall come from the East, and fold its wings on his breast. If you would save your kingdom and your son, command him to do this. It is the will of the Most High.’

“The old man departed, but his words echoed like thunder in my ears. Obey him, my son, the vision came from above.

“The young Prince saw his father laid in the tomb, then prepared himself for his pilgrimage. He did not like the idea of being turned into marble, neither did he like the thought of taking the heart of a young and innocent maiden, if he should find one willing to make the offering—which he did not believe. The Prince had a bright eye and a light step, and he was dressed in brave attire. The maidens looked out of the windows as he passed along, and the young men sighed with envy. He came to a great palace, and being a King’s son, he thought he had a right to enter it; and there he saw a young and beautiful lady, all shining with diamonds and pearls. There was a great feast waiting in the hall, and she asked him to stay, and pressed him to eat and drink, and gave him many glasses of wine, as red as rubies. After the feast was over, and he felt most awfully as he did it, he begged for her heart, the tears glittering in his eyes for sorrow. She smiled, and told him it was already his—but—when with a shaking hand he took a knife, and aimed it at her breast, she screamed and rushed out of the hall, as if the evil one was behind her—Don’t interrupt me, child—don’t—I shall forget it all if you do. Well, the Prince went on his way, thinking the old man had sent him on a fool’s errand—but he dared not disobey his dead father, seeing he was a King. It would take me from sun to sun to tell of all the places where he stopped, and of all the screaming and threatening that followed him wherever he went. It is a wonder he did not turn deaf as an adder. At last he got very tired and sorrowful, and sat down by the wayside and wept, thinking he would rather turn to marble at once, than live by such a horrible remedy. He saw a little cabin close by, but he had hardly strength to reach it, and he thought he would stay there and die.

“‘What makes you weep?’ said a voice so sweet he thought it was music itself, and looking up, he saw a young maiden, who had come up a path behind him, with a pitcher of water on her head. She was beautiful and fair to look upon, though her dress was as plain as could be. She offered him water to drink, and told him if he would go with her to the little cabin, her mother would give him something to eat, and a bed to lie upon, for the night dew was beginning to fall. He had not on his fine dress at this time, having changed it for that of a young peasant, thinking perhaps he would succeed better in disguise. So he followed her steps, and they gave him milk, and bread, and honey, and a nice bed to sleep upon, though it was somewhat hard and coarse. And there he fell sick, and they nursed him day after day, and brought him back to health. The young maiden grew more lovely in his eye, and her voice sounded more and more sweet in his ear. Sometimes he thought of the sacrifice he was to ask, but he could not do it. No, he would die first. One night, the old man with the long, white beard, came in his dream, to his bedside. He looked dark and frowning.

“‘This is the maiden,’ he cried, ‘your pilgrimage is ended here. Do as thou art bidden, and then depart.’

“When the morning came, he was pale and sad, and the young girl was pale and sad from sympathy. Then the Prince knelt down at her feet, and told her the history of his father’s dream and his own, and of his exceeding great and bitter sorrow. He wept, but the maiden smiled, and she looked like an angel with that sweet smile on her face.

“‘My heart is yours,’ she said, ‘I give it willingly and cheerfully. Drain from it every drop of blood, if you will—I care not, so it save you from perishing.’

“Then the eyes of the young Prince shone out like the sun after a storm, and drawing his dagger from his bosom, he—”

“Stop, Miss Thusa—don’t go on,” interrupted Helen, pale with emotion. “I cannot bear to hear it. It is too awful. I asked you for something beautiful, and you have chosen the most terrible theme. Don’t finish it.”

“Is there not something beautiful,” said the young doctor, bending down, and addressing her in a low voice—“is there not something beautiful in such pure and self-sacrificing love? Is there no chord in your heart that thrills responsive as you listen? Oh, Helen—I am sure you could devote yourself for one you loved.”

“Oh, yes!” she answered, forgetting, in her excitement, all her natural timidity. “I could do it joyfully, glorying in the sacrifice. But he, so selfish, so cruel, so sanguinary—it is from him I shrink. His heart is already marble—it cannot change.”

“Wait, child—wait till you hear the end,” cried Miss Thusa, inspired by the effect of her words. “He drew a dagger from his bosom, and was about to plunge it in his own heart, and die at her feet, when the old man of his dream entered and caught hold of his arm.”

“‘’Tis enough,’ he cried. ‘The trial is over. She has given you her heart, her warm, living heart—take it and cherish it. Without love, man turns to stone—and thus becomes a marble statue. You have proved your own love and hers, since you are willing to die for each other. Put up your dagger, and if you ever wound that heart of hers, the vengeance of Heaven rest upon you.’

“Thus saying, he departed, but strange to tell, as he was speaking, his face was all the time growing younger and fairer, his white beard gradually disappeared, and as he went through the door, a pair of white wings, tipped with gold, began to flutter on his shoulders. Then they knew it was an angel that had been with them, and they bowed themselves down to the floor and trembled. Is there any need of my telling you, that the Prince married the young maiden, and carried her to his kingdom, and set her on his throne? Is there any need of my saying how beautiful she looked, with a golden crown on her head, and a golden chain on her neck, and how meek and good she was all the time, in spite of her finery? No, I am sure there isn’t. Now, I must go to spinning.”

“That is beautiful!” cried Helen, the color coming back to her cheeks, “but the white dove, Miss Thusa, that was to fold its wings on his bosom. You have forgotten that.”

“Have I? Yes—yes. Sure enough, I am getting old and forgetful. The white dove that was to come from the east! I remember it all now:—After he had reigned awhile he dreamed again that he was commanded to go in quest of the dove, and take his young Queen with him. They were to go on foot as pilgrims, and leave all their pomp and state behind them, with their faces towards the east, and their eyes lifted to Heaven. While they were journeying on, the young Queen began to languish, and grow pale and wan. At last she sunk down at his feet, and told him that she was going to die, and leave him alone in his pilgrimage. The young King smote his breast, and throwing himself down by her side, prayed to God that he might die too. Then she comforted him, and told him to live for his people, and bow to the will of the Most High.

“‘You were willing to die for me,’ she cried, ‘show greater love by being willing to live when I am gone—love to God and me.’

“‘The will of God be done,’ he exclaimed, prostrating himself before the Lord. Then a soft flutter was heard above his head, and a beautiful white dove flew into his bosom. At the same time an angel appeared, whom he knew was the old man of his dream, all glorified as it were, and the moment he breathed on her, the dying Queen revived and smiled on her husband, just as she did in her mother’s cabin.

“‘You were willing to give your own life for hers,’ said the angel to the young King, ‘and that was love. You were willing to give her up to God, and that was greater love to a greater being. Thou hast been weighed in the balance and not found wanting. Return and carry in thy bosom the milk-white dove, and never let it flee from thy dwelling.’

“The angel went up into Heaven—the young King and Queen returned to their palace, where they had a long, happy, and godly reign.”

The logs in the chimney had burned down to a bed of mingled scarlet and jet, that threw out a still more intense heat, and the sun had rolled down the west, leaving a bed of scarlet behind it, while Miss Thusa related the history of the young Prince of the East.

Helen, in the intensity of her interest, had forgotten the gliding hours, and wondered where the day had flown.

“I think if you related me such stories, Miss Thusa, every day,” said the young doctor, “I should be a wiser and better man. I shall not forget this soon.”

“I do not believe I shall tell another story as long as I live,” replied she, shaking her head oracularly. “I had to exert myself powerfully to remember and put that together as I wanted to. Well, well—all the gifts of God are only loans after all, and He has a right to take them away whenever He chooses. We mustn’t murmur and complain about it.”

“Dear Miss Thusa, this is the best story you ever told,” cried Helen, while she muffled herself for her cold, evening walk. “There is something so touching in its close—and the moral sinks deep in the heart. No, no; I hope to hear a hundred more at least, like this. I am glad you have given up ghosts for angels.”

The wind blew in strong, wintry gusts, as they passed through the leafless woods. Helen shivered with cold, in spite of the warm garments that sheltered her. The scarlet of the horizon had faded into a chill, darkening gray, and as they moved through the shadows, they were scarcely distinguishable themselves from the trees whose dry branches creaked above their heads. Arthur folded his cloak around Helen to protect her from the inclemency of the air, and the warmth of summer stole into her heart. They talked of Miss Thusa, of the story she had told, of its interest and its moral, and Arthur said he would be willing to make a pilgrimage to Mecca, over burning coals, for such a heart as the maiden offered to the young Prince. That very heart was throbbing close, very close to his, but its deep emotions found no utterance through the lips. Helen remarked that she would willingly travel with bleeding feet from end to end of the universe, for the beautiful white dove, which was the emblem of God’s holy spirit.

“Helen, that dove is nestling in your bosom already,” cried Arthur Hazleton; “but the heart I sigh for, will it indeed ever be mine?”Helen could not answer, for she dared not interpret the words which, though addressed to herself, might have reference to another. With the humility and self-depreciation usually the accompaniment of deep reverence and devotion, she could not believe it possible that one so exalted in intellect, so noble in character, so beloved and honored by all who knew him, so much older than herself; one, too, who knew all her weaknesses and faults, could ever look upon her otherwise than with brotherly kindness and regard. Then she contrasted his manner with that of Clinton, for his were the only love-words that ever were breathed into her ear, and she was sure that if Clinton’s was the language of love, Arthur’s was that of friendship only. Perhaps her silence chilled, it certainly hushed the expression of his thoughts, for he spoke not till they reached the threshold of her home. The bright light gleaming through the blinds, showed them how dark it had grown abroad since they left Miss Thusa’s cottage. Helen was conscious then how very slowly they must have walked.

“Thank you,” said she, releasing herself from the sheltering folds that had enveloped her. “Hark!” she suddenly exclaimed, “whose voice is that I hear within? It is—it must be Louis. Dear, dear Louis!—so long absent!—so anxiously looked for!”

Even in that moment of joy, while bounding over the threshold with the fleetness of a fawn, the dreaded form of Clinton rose before the eye of her imagination, and arrested for a moment her flying steps. Again she heard the voice of Louis, and Clinton was forgotten.