“Go, sin no more! Thy penance o’er,
A new and better life begin!
God maketh thee forever free
From the dominion of thy sin!
Go, sin no more! He will restore
The peace that filled thy heart before,
And pardon thine iniquity.”—Longfellow.

“I am glad you came alone, brother,” cried Helen, when, after the supper was over, they all drew around the blazing hearth. Louis turned abruptly towards her, and as the strong firelight fell full upon his face, she was shocked even more than at first, with his altered appearance. The bloom, the brightness, the joyousness of youth were gone, leaving in their stead, paleness, and dimness, and gloom. He looked several years older than when he left home, but his was not the maturity of the flower, but its premature wilting. There was a worm in the calyx, preying on the vitality of the blossom, and withering up its beauty.

Yes! Louis had been feeding on the husks of dissipation, though in his father’s house there was food enough and to spare. He had been selling his immortal birth-right for that which man has in common with the brutes that perish, and the reptiles that crawl in the dust. Slowly, reluctantly at first, had he stepped into the downward path, looking back with agonies of remorse to the smooth, green, flowery plains he had left behind, striving to return, but driven forward by the gravitating power of sin. The passionate resolutions he formed from day to day of amendment, were broken, like the light twigs that grow by the mountain wayside.

He had looked upon the wine when it was red, and found in its dregs the sting of the adder. He had participated in the maddening excitement of the gaming-table, from which remorse and horror pursued him with scorpion lash. He had entered the “chambers of death”—though avenging demons guarded its threshold. Poor, tempted Louis! poor, fallen Louis! In how short a space has the whiteness of thy innocence been sullied, the glory of thy promise been obscured! But the flame fed by oxygen soon wastes away by its own intensity, and ardent passions once kindled, burn with self-consuming rapidity.

We have not followed Louis in his wild and reckless course since he left his father’s mansion. It was too painful to witness the degeneracy of our early favorite. But the whole history of the past was written on his haggard brow and pallid cheek. It need not be recorded here. He had thought himself a life-long alien from the home he had disgraced, for never could he encounter his father’s indignant frown, or call up the blush of shame on Helen’s spotless cheek.

But one of those mighty drawings of the spirit—stronger than chains of triple steel—that thirst of the heart for pure domestic joy, which the foaming goblet can never quench—that immortal longing which rises up from the lowest abysses of sin, that yearning for pardon which stirred the bosom of the Hebrew prodigal, constrained the transgressing Louis to burst asunder the bonds of iniquity, and return to his father’s house.

“I am glad you have come alone, brother,” repeated Helen, repressing the sigh that quivered on her lips.

“Who did you expect would be my companion?” asked Louis, putting back the long, neglected locks, that fell darkly over his temples.

“I feared Bryant Clinton would return with you,” replied Helen, regretting the next moment that she had uttered a name which seemed to have the effect of galvanism on Mittie—who started spasmodically, and lifted the screen before her face. No one had asked for Clinton, yet all had been thinking of him more or less.

“I have not seen him for several weeks,” he replied, “he had business that called him in another direction, but he will probably be here soon.”

Again Mittie gave a spasmodic start, and held the screen closer to her face. Helen sighed, and looked anxiously towards her mother. The announcement excited very contradictory emotions.

“Do you mean to imply that he is coming again as the guest of your parents, as the inmate of this home?” asked Mr. Gleason, sternly.

“Yes, sir,” replied Louis, a red streak flashing across his face. “How could it be otherwise?”

“But it shall be otherwise,” exclaimed Mr. Gleason, rising abruptly from his chair, and speaking with a vehemence so unwonted that it inspired awe. “That young man shall never again, with my consent, sit down at my board, or sleep under my roof. I believe him a false, unprincipled, dangerous companion—whom my doors shall never more be opened to receive. Had it not been for him, that pale, stone-like, petrified girl, might have been brilliant and blooming, yet. Had it not been for him, I should not have the anguish, the humiliation, the shame of seeing my son, my only son, the darling of his dead mother’s heart, the pride and hope of mine, a blighted being, shorn of the brightness of youth, and the glory of advancing manhood. Talk not to me of bringing the destroyer here. This fireside shall never more be darkened by his presence.”

Mr. Gleason paused, but from his eye, fixed steadfastly on Louis, the long sleeping lightning darted. Mittie, who had sprung from her chair while her father was speaking, stood with white cheeks and parted lips, and eyes from which fire seemed to coruscate, gazing first at him, and then at her brother.

“Father,” cried Louis, “you wrong him. My sins and transgressions are my own. Mountain high as they are, they shall not crush another. Mine is the sorrow and guilt, and mine be the penalty. I do not extenuate my own offences, but I will not criminate others. I beseech you, sir, to recall what you have just uttered, for how can I close those doors upon a friend, which have so lately been opened for him with ungrudging hospitality?”

Mittie’s countenance lighted up with an indescribable expression. She caught her brother’s hand, and pressing it in both hers, exclaimed—

“Nobly said, Louis. He who can hear an absent friend defamed, without defending him, is worthy of everlasting scorn.”

But Helen, terrified at the outburst of her father’s anger, and overwhelmed with grief for her brother’s humiliation, bowed her head and wept in silence.

Mr. Gleason turned his eyes, where the lightning still gleamed, from Louis to Mittie, as if trying to read her inscrutable countenance.

“Tell me, Mittie,” he cried, “the whole length and breadth of the interest you have in this young man. I have suffered you to elude this subject too long. I have borne with your proud and sullen reserve too long. I have been weak and irresolute in times past, but thoroughly aroused to a sense of my authority and responsibility as a father, as well as my duty as a man, I command you to tell me all that has passed between you and Bryant Clinton. Has he proffered you marriage? Has he exchanged with you the vows of betrothal? Have you gone so far without my knowledge or approval?”

“I cannot answer such questions, sir,” she haughtily replied, the hot blood rushing into her face and filling her forehead veins with purple. “You have no right to ask them in this presence. There are some subjects too sacred for investigation, and this is one. There are limits even to a father’s authority, and I protest against its encroachments.”

Those who are slow to arouse to anger are slow to be appeased. The flame that is long in kindling generally burns with long enduring heat. Mr. Gleason had borne, with unexampled patience, Mittie’s strange and wayward temper. For the sake of family peace he had sacrificed his own self-respect, which required deference and obedience in a child. But having once broken the spell which had chained his tongue, and meeting a resisting will, his own grew stronger and more determined.

“Do you dare thus to reply to me, your father?” cried he; “you will find there are limits to a father’s indulgence, too. Trifle not with my anger, but give me the answer I require.”

“Never, sir, never,” cried she, with a mien as undaunted as Charlotte Corday’s, that “angel of assassination,” when arraigned before the tribunal of justice.

“Did you never hear of a discarded child?” said he, his voice sinking almost to a whisper, it was so choked with passion.

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you not fear such a doom?”

“No, sir.”

“My husband,” exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, laying her hand imploringly on his shoulder, “be calm. Seek not by violence to break the stubborn will which kindness cannot bend. Let not our fireside be a scene of domestic contention, which we shall blush to recall. Leave her to the dark and sullen secrecy she prefers to our tenderness and sympathy. And, one thing I beseech you, my husband, suspend your judgment of the character of Clinton till Louis is able to explain all that is doubtful and mysterious. He is weary now, and needs rest instead of excitement.”

There was magic in the touch of that gentle hand, in the tones of that persuasive voice. The father’s stern brow relaxed, and a cloud of the deepest sadness extinguished the fiery anger of his glance. The cloud condensed and melted away in tears. Helen saw them, though he turned away, and shaded his face with his hand, and putting her arms round him, she kissed the hand which hung loosely at his side. This act, so tender and respectful, touched him to the heart’s core.

“My child, my darling, my own sweet Helen,” he cried, pressing her fondly to his bosom. “You have always been gentle, loving and obedient. You have never wilfully given me one moment’s sorrow. In the name of thy beautiful mother I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed.”

The excitement of his feelings gave an exalted tone to his voice and words, and as the benediction stole solemnly into her heart, Helen felt as if the plumage of the white dove was folded in downy softness there. In the meantime Mittie had quitted the room, and Mrs. Gleason drawing near Louis, sat down by him, and addressed him in a kind, cheering manner.

“These heavy locks must be shorn to-morrow,” said she, passing her hand over his long, dark hair. “They sadden your countenance too much. A night’s sleep, too, will bring back the color to your face. You are over weary now. Retire, my son, and banish every emotion but gratitude for your return. You are safe now, and all will yet be well.”

“Oh, mother,” he answered, suffering his head to droop upon her shoulder, then suddenly lifting it, “I am not worthy to rest on this sacred pillow. I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garments, but if the deepest repentance—the keenest remorse,” he paused, for his voice faltered, then added, passionately, “oh, mother—

‘Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy sirups of the world
Can ever medicine me to the sweet sleep’

I once slept beneath this hallowed roof.”

“No, my son—but there is a remedy more balmy and powerful than all the drugs of the East, which you can obtain without money and without price.”

Louis shook his head mournfully.

“I will give you an anodyne to-night, prepared by my own hand, and to-morrow—”

“Give me the anodyne, kindest and best of mothers, but don’t, for Heaven’s sake, talk of to-morrow.”

But whether man speak or be silent, Time, the unresting traveler, presses on. Never but once have its chariot wheels been stayed, when the sun stood still on the plains of Gibeon, and the moon hung pale and immovable over the vale of Ajalon. Sorrow and remorse are great prophets, but Time is greater still, and they can no more arrest or accelerate its progress than the breath of a new-born infant can move the eternal mountains from their base.

Louis slept, thanks to his step-mother’s anodyne, and the dreaded morrow came, when the broad light of day must reveal all the inroads the indulgence of guilty passions had caused. Another revelation must be made. He knew his father would demand a full history of his conduct, and it was a relief to his burdened conscience, that had so long groaned under the weight of secret transgressions, to cast itself prostrate at the feet of parental authority in the dust and ashes of humiliation. But while he acknowledged and deplored his own vices, he could not criminate Clinton. He implored his father to inflict upon him any penalty, however severe, he knew, he felt it to be just, but not to require of him to treat his friend with ingratitude and insult. His stay would not be long. He must return very soon to Virginia. He had been prevented from doing so by a fatal and contagious disease that had been raging in the neighborhood of his home, and when that subsided, other accidental causes had constantly interfered with his design. Must the high-spirited Virginian go back to his native regions with the story so oft repeated of New England coldness and inhospitality verified in his own experience?

“Say no more,” said his father. “I will reflect on all you have said, and you shall know the result. Now, come with me to the counting-house, and let me see if you can put your mathematics to any practical use. Employment is the greatest safeguard against temptation.”

There was one revelation which Louis did not make, and that was the amount of his debts. He dared not do it, though again and again he had opened his lips to tell it.

“To-morrow I will do it,” thought he—but before the morrow came he recollected the words of Miss Thusa, uttered the last time he had visited her cabin—“If you should get into trouble and not want to vex those that are kin, you can come to me, and if you don’t despise my counsel and assistance perhaps it may do you good.” This had made but little impression on him at the time, but it came back to him now “powerfully” as Miss Thusa would say; and he thought it possible there was more meant than reached the ear. He remembered how meaningly, how even commandingly her gray eye had fixed itself on him as she spoke, and he believed in the great love which the ancient spinster bore him. At any rate he knew she would be gratified by such a proof of confidence on his part, and that with Spartan integrity she would guard the trust. It would be a relief to confide in her.

He waited till twilight and then appeared an unexpected but welcome visitor at the Hermitage, as Helen called the old gray cottage. The light in the chimney was dim, and she was hastening to kindle a more cheering blaze.“No, Miss Thusa,” said he, “I love this soft gloom. There’s no need of a blaze to talk by, you know.”

“But I want to see you, Louis. It is long since we’ve watched your coming. Many a time has Helen sat where you are now, and talked about you till the tears would run down her cheeks, wondering why you didn’t come, and fearing some evil had befallen you. I’ve had my misgivings, too, though I never breathed them to mortal ear, ever since you went off with that long-haired upstart, who fumbled so about my wheel, trying to fool me with his soft nonsense. What has become of him?”

“He is at home, I believe—but you are too harsh in your judgment, Miss Thusa. It is strange what prejudiced you so against him.”

“Something here,” cried the spinster, striking her hand against her heart; “something that God put here, not man. I’m glad you and he have parted company; and I’m glad for more sakes than one. I never loved Mittie, but she’s her mother’s child, and I don’t like the thought of her being miserable for life. And now, Louis, what do you want me to do for you? I can see you are in trouble, though you don’t want the fire to blaze on your face. You forget I wear glasses, though they are not always at home, where they ought to be, on the bridge of my nose.”

“You told me if I needed counsel or assistance, to come to you and not trouble my kindred. I am in distress, Miss Thusa, and it is my own fault. I’m in debt. I owe money that I cannot raise; I cannot tax my father again to pay the wages of sin. Tell me now how you can aid me; you, poor and lonely, earning only a scanty pittance by the flax on your distaff, and as ignorant of the world as simple-hearted Helen herself?”

Miss Thusa leaned her head forward on both hands, swaying her body slowly backward and forward for a few seconds; then taking the poker, she gave the coals a great flourish, which made the sparks fly to the top of the chimney.

“I’ll try to help you,” said she, “but if you have been doing wrong and been led away by evil companions, he, your father, ought to know it. Better find it out from yourself than anybody else.”“He knows all my misconduct,” replied Louis, raising his head with an air of pride. “I would scorn to deceive him. And yet,” he added, with a conscious blush, “you may accuse me of deception in this instance. He has not asked me the sum I owe—and Heaven knows I could not go and thrust my bills in his face. I thought perhaps there was some usurer, whom you had heard of, who could let me have the money. They are debts of honor, and must be paid.”

“Of honor!” repeated Miss Thusa, with a tone of ineffable contempt. “I thought you had more sense, Louis, than to talk in that nonsensical way. It’s more—it’s downright wicked. I know what it all means, well enough. They’re debts you are ashamed of, that you had no business to make, that you dare not let your father know of; and yet you call them debts of honor.”

Louis rose from his seat with a haughty and offended air.

“I was a fool to come,” he muttered to himself; “I might have known better. The Evil Spirit surely prompted me.”

Then walking rapidly to the door, he said—

“I came here for comfort and advice, Miss Thusa, according to your own bidding, not to listen to railings that can do no good to you or to me. I had been to you so often in my boyish difficulties, and found sympathy and kindness, I thought I should find it now. I know I do not deserve it, but I nevertheless expected it from you. But it is no matter. I may as well brave the worst at once.”

Snatching up his hat and pulling it over his brows, he was about to shoot through the door, when the long arm of Miss Thusa was interposed as a barrier against him.

“There is no use in being angry with an old woman like me,” said she, in a pacifying tone, just as she would soothe a fretful child. “I always speak what I think, and it is the truth, too—Gospel truth, and you know it. But come, come, sit down like a good boy, and let us talk it all over. There—I won’t say another cross word to-night.”

The first smile which had lighted up the face of Louis since his return, flitted over his lip, as Miss Thusa pushed him down into the chair he had quitted, and drew her own close to it.“Now,” said she, “tell me how much money you want, and I’ll try to get it for you. Have faith in me. That can work wonders.”

After Louis had made an unreserved communication of the whole, she told him to come the next day.

“I can do nothing now,” said she, “but who knows what the morrow may bring forth?”

“Who, indeed!” thought Louis, as he wended his solitary way homeward. “I know not why it is, but I cannot help having some reliance on the promises of this singular old woman. It was my perfect confidence in her truth and integrity that drew me to her. What her resources are, I know not; I fear they exist only in her own imagination; but if she should befriend me in this, mine extremity, may the holy angels guard and bless her. Alas! it is mockery for me to invoke them.”

The next day when he returned to her cabin, he found her spinning with all her accustomed solemnity. He blushed with shame, as he looked round on the appearance of poverty that met his eye, respectable and comfortable poverty, it is true—but for him to seek assistance of the inmate of such a dwelling! He must have thought her a sorceress, to have believed in the existence of such a thing. He must have been maddened to have admitted such an idea.

“Forgive me, Miss Thusa,” said he, with the frankness of the boy Louis, “forgive me for plaguing you with my troubles. I was not in my right senses yesterday, or I should not have done it. I have resolved to have no concealments from my father, and to tell him all.”

Miss Thusa dipped her hand in a pocket as deep as a well, which she wore at her right side, and taking out a well-filled and heavy purse, she put it in the hand of Louis.

“There is something to help you a little,” said she, without looking him in the face. “You must take it as a present from old Miss Thusa, and never say a word about it to a human being. That is all I ask of you—and it is not much. Don’t thank me. Don’t question me. The money was mine, honestly got and righteously given. One of these days I’ll tell you where it came from, but I can’t now.”

Louis held the purse with a bewildered air, his fingers trembling with emotion. Never before had he felt all the ignominy and all the shame which he had brought upon himself. A hot, scalding tide came rushing with the cataract’s speed through his veins, and spreading with burning hue over his face.

“No! I cannot, I cannot!” he exclaimed, dropping the purse, and clenching his hands on his brow. “I did not mean to beg of your bounty. I am not so lost as to wrench from your aged hand, the gold that may purchase comfort and luxuries for all your remaining years. No, Miss Thusa, my reason has returned—my sense of honor, too—I were worse than a robber, to take advantage of your generous offer.”

“Louis—Louis Gleason,” cried Miss Thusa, rising from her seat, her tall, ancestral-looking figure assuming an air of majesty and command—“listen to me; if you cast that purse from you, I will never make use of it as long as I live, which won’t be long. It will do no good to a human being. What do I want of money? I had rather live in this little, old, gray hut than the palace of the Queen of England. I had rather earn my bread by this wheel, than eat the food of idleness. Your father gives me fuel in winter, and his heart is warmed by the fire that he kindles for me. It does him good. It does everybody good to befriend another. What do I want of money? To whom in the wide world should I give it, but you and Helen? I have as much and more for her. My heart is drawn powerfully towards you two children, and it will continue to draw, while there is life in its fibres or blood in its veins. Take it, I say—and in the name of your mother in heaven, go, and sin no more.”

“I take it,” said Louis, awed into submission and humility by her prophetic solemnity, “I take it as a loan, which I will labor day and night to return. What would my father say, if he knew of this?”

“He will not know it, unless you break your word,” said Miss Thusa, setting her wheel in motion, and wetting her fingers in the gourd. “You may go, now, if you will not talk of something else. I must go and get some more flax. I can see all the ribs of my distaff.”

Louis knew that this was an excuse to escape his thanks, and giving her hand a reverent and silent pressure, he left the cabin. Heavy as lead lay the purse in his pocket—heavy as lead lay the heart in his bosom.

Helen met him at the door, with a radiant countenance.

“Who do you think is come, brother?” she asked.

“Is it Clinton?” said he.

“Oh! no—it is Alice. A friend of her brother was coming directly here, and she accompanied him. Come and see her.”

“Thank God! she cannot see!” exclaimed Louis, as he passed into the presence of the blind girl.

Though no beam of pleasure irradiated her sightless eyes, her bright and heightening color, the eager yet tremulous tones of her voice assured him of a joyous welcome. Alice remembered the thousand acts of kindness by which he had endeared to her the very helplessness which had called them forth. His was the hand every ready to guide her, the arm offered for her support. His were the cheering accents most welcome to her ears, and his steps had a music which belonged to no steps but his. His image, reflected on the retina of the soul, was beautiful as the dream of imagination, an image on which time could cast no shadow, being without variableness or change.

“Thank God,” again repeated Louis to himself, “that she cannot see. I can read no reproach in those blue and silent orbs. I can drink in her pure and holy loveliness, till my spirit grows purer and holier as I gaze. Blessings on thee for coming, sweet and gentle Alice. As David charmed the evil spirit in the haunted breast of Saul, so shall thy divine strains lull to rest the fiends of remorse that are wrestling and gnawing in my bosom. The time has been when I dreamed of being thy guide through life, a lamp to thy blindness, and a stay and support to thy helpless innocence. The dream is past—I wake to the dread reality of my own utter unworthiness.”

These thoughts rose tumultuously in the breast of the young man, in the moment of greeting, while the soft hand of the blind girl lingered tremblingly in his. Without thinking of the influence it might have on her feelings, he sought her presence as a balm to his chafed and tortured heart, as a repose to his worn and weary spirit, as an anodyne to the agonies of remorse. The grave, sad glance of his father; the serious, yet tender and pitying look of his step-mother; and the pensive, melting, sympathizing eye of Helen, were all daggers to his conscience. But Alice could not see. No daggers of reproach were sheathed in those reposing eyes. Oh! how remorse and shame shrink from being arraigned before that throne of light where the immortal spirit sits enthroned—the human eye! If thus conscious guilt recoils from the gaze of man, weak, fallible, erring man, how can it stand the consuming fire of that Eternal Eye, in whose sight the heavens are not clean, and before which archangels bend, veiling their brows with their refulgent wings!

It was about a week after the arrival of Louis and the coming of Alice, that, as the family were assembled round the evening fireside, a note was brought to Louis.

“Clinton is come,” cried he, in an agitated voice, “he waits me at the hotel.”

“What shall I say to him, father?” asked he, turning to Mr. Gleason, whose folded arms gave an air of determination to his person, which Louis did not like.

“Come with me into the next room, Louis,” said Mr. Gleason, and Louis followed with a firm step but a sinking heart.

“I have reflected deeply, deliberately, prayerfully on this subject, my son, since we last discussed it, and the result is this: I cannot, while such dark doubts disturb my mind, I cannot, consistent with my duty as a father and a Christian, allow this young man to be domesticated in my family again. If I wrong him, may God forgive me—but if I wrong my own household, I fear He never will.”

“I cannot go—I will not go!” exclaimed Louis, dashing the note on the floor. “This is the last brimming drop in the cup of humiliation, bitterer than all the rest.”

“Louis, Louis, have you not merited humiliation? Have you a right to murmur at the decree? Have I upbraided you for the anxious days and sleepless nights you have occasioned me? For my blasted hopes and embittered joys? No, Louis. I saw that your own heart condemned you, and I left you to your God, who is greater than your own heart and mine!”“Oh, father!” cried Louis, melted at once by this pathetic and solemn appeal, “I know I have no right to claim any thing at your hands, but I beg, I supplicate—not for myself—but another!”

“’Tis in vain, Louis. Urge me no more. On this point I am inflexible. But, since it is so painful to you, I will go myself and openly avow the reasons of my conduct.”

“No, sir,” exclaimed Louis, “not for the world. I will go at once.”

He turned suddenly and quitted the apartment, and then the house, with a half-formed resolution of fleeing to the wild woods, and never more returning.

Mittie, who was fortunately in her room above, (fortunately, we say, for her presence would have been as fuel to flame,) heard the quick opening and shutting of doors, and the sound of rapid steps on the flag-stones of the yard.

“Louis, Louis,” she cried, opening the window and recognizing his figure in the star-lit night, “whither are you going?”

“To perdition!” was the passionate reply.

“Oh, Louis, speak and tell me truly, is Clinton come?”

“He is.”

“And you are going to bring him here?”

“No, never, never! Now shut the window. You have heard enough.”

Yes, she had heard enough! The sash fell from her hand, and a pane of glass, shivered by the fall, flew partly in shining particles against her dress, and partly lay scattered on the snowy ground. A fragment rebounded, and glanced upon her forehead, making the blood-drops trickle down her cheek. Wiping them off with her handkerchief, she gazed on the crimson stain, and remembering her bleeding fingers when they parted, and Miss Thusa’s legend of the Maiden’s Bleeding Heart, she involuntarily put her hand to her own to feel if it were not bleeding, too. All the strong and passionate love which had been smouldering there, beneath the ashes of sullen pride, struggling for vent, heaved the bosom where it was concealed. And with this love there blazed a fiercer flame, indignation against her father for the prohibition that raised a barrier between herself and Bryant Clinton. One moment she resolved to rush down stairs and give utterance to the vehement anger that threatened to suffocate her by repression; the next, the image of a stern, rebuking father, inflexible in his will, checked her rash design. Had she been in his presence and heard the interdiction repeated, her resentful feelings would have burst forth; but, daring as she was, there was some restraining influence over her passions.

Then she reflected that parental prohibitions were as the gossamer web before the strength of real love,—that though Clinton was forbidden to meet her in her father’s house, the world was wide enough to furnish a trysting-place elsewhere. Let him but breathe the word, she was ready to fly with him from zone to zone, believing that even the frozen regions of Lapland would be converted into a blooming Paradise by the magic of his love. But what if he loved her no more, as Helen had asserted? What if Helen had indeed supplanted her?

“No, no!” cried she, aloud, shrinking from the dark and evil thoughts that came gliding into her soul; “no, no, I will not think of it! It would drive me mad!”

It was past midnight when Louis returned, and the light still burned in Mittie’s chamber. The moment she heard his step on the flag-stones, she sprang to the window and opened it. The cold night air blew chill on her feverish and burning face, but she heeded it not.

“Louis,” she said, “wait. I will come down and open the door.”

“It is not fastened,” he replied; “it is not likely that I am barred out also. Go to bed, Mittie—for Heaven’s sake, go to bed.”

But, throwing off her slippers, she flew down stairs, the carpet muffling the sound of her footsteps, and met her brother on the threshold.

“Why will you do this, Mittie?” cried he, impatiently. “Do go back—I am cold and weary, and want to go to bed.”

“Only tell me one thing—have you no message for me?”

“None.”

“When does he go away?”

“I don’t know. But one thing I can tell you; if you value your peace and happiness, let not your heart anchor its hopes on him. Look upon all that is past as mere gallantry on his side, and the natural drawing of youth to youth on yours. Come this way,” drawing her into the sitting-room, where the dying embers still communicated warmth to the apartment, and shed a dim, lurid light on their faces. “Though my head aches as if red-hot wires were passing through it, I must guard you at once against this folly. You know so little of the world, Mittie, you don’t understand the manners of young men, especially when first released from college. There is a chivalry about them which converts every young lady into an angel, and they address them as such. Their attentions seldom admit a more serious construction. Besides—but no matter—I have said enough, I hope, to rouse the pride of your sex, and to induce you to banish Clinton from your thoughts. Good-night.”

Though he tried to speak carelessly, he was evidently much agitated.

“Good-night,” he again repeated, but Mittie stood motionless as a statue, looking steadfastly on the glimmering embers. “Go up stairs,” he cried, taking her cold hand, and leading her to the door, “you will be frozen if you stay here much longer.”

“I am frozen already,” she answered, shuddering, “good night.”

The next morning, when the housemaid went into her room to kindle a fire, she was startled by the appearance of a muffled figure seated at the window, with the head leaning against the casement; the face was as white as the snow on the landscape. It was Mittie. She had not laid her head upon the pillow the whole live-long night.