"My dear fellow, how glad I am to meet you!" cried Clinton, cordially extending his hand in a manner which permitted the diamond on his finger to catch the light, in what he thought a most bewildering glitter.

Arthur would have shunned him, as his new resolutions and good genius prompted him to do; but there was that graceful form half-bent for his greeting, there was that smiling face, looking its hearty "How are you?" there was the social yet searching glance of that glittering eye, all saying, "Shake hands with me," and Arthur did.

"Mr. Clinton, how do you do?"

"Well, my boy, well; really hope you've got over the effects of your Carrolton ride. By-the-by, Quirk got you into that muss, not I, by Jove! You were inclined to be a little huffy this morning; however you were excusable—that's all forgotten. You'll do me justice now—there, give me your hand again, and tell me you consider me one of you."

Arthur's generous heart could not withstand this merry, good-humored, yet apparently sincere appeal, and the hand was again given. He thought, too, that he might have been unjust in his reflections about Clinton, for he had met him only by chance on his way to Carrolton, and in truth he had urged him to no wrong, but had only joined him in what he was already doing. Then, had he not kindly been the means of liberating him from the watch-house, when he might otherwise have been left to meet the shame and expense of a public trial? Verily, he had much for which to be grateful to Mr. Clinton, and with one of those sudden impulses, natural to a hasty temper and impetuous spirit, he sought instantly to make amends for what now seemed the unjust and unkindly sentiments he had all day been entertaining toward his new friend.

"Mr. Clinton, I fear I have blamed you most wrongfully. However, let all this, as you say, be forgotten."

"That's it, my boy, I knew I wasn't mistaken in you. You've just the heart there, in your bosom, that I was sure you had when I first saw you. Believe me, I am proud to know that heart."

Arthur was but human, and, like all humanity, the gilded pill of flattery was swallowed without the aid of sweetmeats. He could not but remember, with a great deal of compunction, the great wrong he had, as he felt, done Clinton in harboring towards him such unkindly thoughts.

"Oh, Mr. Clinton, pray pardon my neglect!" said he, suddenly turning toward that young gentleman. "Allow me to make you acquainted with my brother. Gulian—Mr. Clinton."

Guly bowed distantly. Those young eyes had seen deeper into the heart before him, in the few minutes that he had been an observer of its impulses, than Arthur had seen, or at least decided upon, in forty-eight hours of mingled acquaintanceship and reflection. True, the boy knew but little of the world; but there are some, and they are not the worldly and suspicious, but the pure-minded and gentle, that shrink intuitively from a polluting presence, scarce knowing from what they shrink. There was much in Mr. Clinton which Guly saw to dread, as a companion for his brother; and, at their first recognition, he was assured it was one of Arthur's yesterday acquaintances, and felt a pang of disappointment at not seeing him differently received by his brother.

"Where are you strolling?" asked Mr. Clinton, breaking a pause, which had followed Guly's cool reception of himself.

"Merely out for a walk," returned Arthur; "it's only before and after business hours, you know, that we have time for recreation."

"True, true," replied the other, stroking his chin, and speaking in a commiserating tone. "Ah, that must be terribly dull business, for young chaps like you. I always pity a clerk."

"Indeed, sir," said Guly, "we neither deserve nor need pity; we have everything to make us contented and happy in our new situation, and appreciate it, I assure you."

Mr. Clinton glanced for an instant keenly at the speaker, then answered, with a light laugh:—

"Yes, yes, just so; I didn't apply my remark beyond myself; in fact, it's something I never could stand."

"We have extended our walk as far as we intended for to-night, have we not, brother? Mr. Clinton, we bid you good evening," said Guly, as they, for the third time, gained the gate by which they had entered the square.

Mr. Clinton looked up in astonishment.

"No! you don't mean to leave so? Come, let's just step over to Royal-street, and take a glass of soda-water. You will find it so refreshing."

Poor Arthur "felt his pockets bare," and was about to refuse, when Mr. Clinton slipped a hand through his arm, and drew him with him, saying, as he did so:—

"You know it's my treat this time, Pratt. Don't refuse a friend."

As Arthur moved away with him, Guly determined not to leave his side for an instant, while in the presence of so dangerous a companion, and though his heart went down as he saw Arthur thus forgeting all his new-formed resolutions, yet he hoped for the best, and went with him resolutely.

They entered a richly ornamented saloon, where all that could please the palate or tickle the taste was most temptingly displayed; and Clinton, tossing a gold half-eagle upon the marble counter, called for "a few choice titbits and a bottle of wine."

As the last desideratum was named, Guly glanced anxiously toward his brother, but Arthur's eye was turned another way, and when the collation was brought he sat readily down at the table by Clinton's side. Guly did not wish to appear ill-bred or impolite, and he accepted the hearty invitation of his new acquaintance to "sit by," with as good a grace as he could command. Of the wine, however, he could not be prevailed upon to touch a drop—though he did not fail to perceive the sneer that curled Mr. Clinton's thin lip at his refusal.

"You don't mean to say," said the last mentioned gentleman, half-pityingly, "that you expect to remain in New-Orleans any length of time without learning to drink wine?"

"I shall never touch a drop, sir, unless absolutely necessary in a case of sickness."

"Bah! anybody would know you were from the North, my dear fellow, just by that speech. Nobody hesitates to drink wine here, unless those who are too poor to pay for it"—and the speaker glanced keenly, but slyly, at Guly's face, then added: "Why, it's impossible here to avoid drinking, even if you would. A young man calls upon a lady, and the first thing she thinks of offering him after a seat is a glass of wine. It is always there on the sideboard, and to refuse would be an act of utter impoliteness. What could you do in such a case, my boy, eh?"

"I should, I hope, have sufficient courage to tell the young lady I never drank, and must be excused; and if she liked me the less for it, I would bear in mind that if such an act deprived me of her good will, her good will certainly was not worth retaining."

"I should like to see you tried once, with a pretty girl in the case," returned Clinton, gulping down a second glass.

"I cannot wonder at the depraved state of society in this city," said Guly, earnestly, "when woman, who should be the first to frown upon and discountenance such practices, not only is the tempter, but the hearty partaker of them. I am certain if the other sex were more strict—would positively refuse to attend places of amusement on Sabbath evenings, would refrain utterly from drinking wine themselves, and offering it to others—there would be a great change here for the better. Woman little thinks how much of man's depravity can be traced back to be laid upon her shoulders."

"Nonsense!" said Clinton, with a short laugh. "Women, you'll find when you've been here long enough, have less to do with it than rain-water full of wriggle-tails, as they call those young animals that fill our cisterns in summer time, and the no less disagreeable—to one not a native here—muddy water from the river as a beverage. One is absolutely forced to 'tip the goblet red,' in order to have something palatable to rinse down his food. Woman, indeed! Poh! come, have a glass, and be social."

"No," said Guly, firmly, drawing back; "I will not drink. However you may scoff, Mr. Clinton, at woman's influence, it is to that I impute my strength to withstand temptation here. My last promise to my mother, was never to become a wine-bibber, and I shall keep it."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Clinton. "Here's a bumper to your resolution and your mother," and touching glasses with Arthur, he swallowed the contents of his goblet; though his companion, with conscience awakened in his breast by his brother's words, scarcely touched the sparkling beverage to his lips.

"You spoke of the depravity of this city, also"—continued Clinton, shoving back from the table, and wiping his lips. "It isn't, in my opinion, one-half, or, to say the least, any more depraved than any of your Northern cities. The only difference is, here everything is done open and above board; what sin there is, is before your eyes, and you don't feel when you tread our streets, that you are walking over hidden hells, and sunken purgatories, which is, I think, more than you can say in behalf of your Northern cities. Now, isn't it?"

"The fact of all the dissipation and Sabbath-breaking here being openly carried on, is the very worst argument, Mr. Clinton, you could bring forward. It proves how much worse the tendency, when it can so harden the heart of society as to regard it without a shudder, and to look upon such things as right. Sunday absolutely loses its identity here, in the manner in which it is kept; and a little more law, more rigidly enforced, would, I am certain, elevate the standard of society into a purer and more ennobling atmosphere. If men still persisted in sin, the fear of punishment would force them to keep out of sight of those who would be Christians, which, for some, must be really a hard matter now. Yesterday, in coming from church, I met a full company of soldiers, in complete uniform, out for a drill. I passed many stores thronged with customers, even as on a week-day, and received an invitation to attend a horse-race on the Metarie Course; all of which, you will admit, was in jarring discordance with the sermon upon which I was trying to reflect, and the Prayer-Book in my hand."

Clinton burst into a loud laugh.

"The time will come when you'll know better than to reflect upon sermons here, and will put your Prayer-Book in your pocket, instead of carrying it in your hand. People go to church in this place to see and be seen; to learn the fashions and see new faces—not to remember sermons or read prayers. I heard a minister declare, the other day, that he could preach a sermon over every six weeks, and not one in twenty of his hearers would remember to have heard it before. I've had serious thoughts of turning minister myself; donning a gray wig and white cravat, and 'spounding the Bible, as the blacks say, to my deluded hearers. 'Pon honor, it's the most lucrative situation a poor devil can have. Preaching a short sermon, morning and night, to an inattentive but fashionable congregation, who are sure to make a minister popular among 'em, if he don't touch their peculiar sins too closely, give him an immense salary, let him off on full pay for four months in a year, and pay his debts when he accepts a call in another quarter."

"A comfortable situation, I must confess," said Arthur, with a smile. "When you take a stand in the pulpit count upon me for one of your hearers."

"A thousand thanks for your promised patronage," returned Mr. Clinton, with a bow of mock gravity; "but suppose we discuss the matter moving;" and rising, he led the way into the street.

As much as Guly wished to be rid of Mr. Clinton's society, he saw the thing was impossible, at least at present, and submitted to a farther endurance of it with as much suavity as possible. Still keeping by his brother's side, he walked on in silence, anxiously awaiting the moment when their companion should see fit to leave them.

"Hallo!" cried Clinton, suddenly stopping before an illuminated window, and peering earnestly into it, "the new numbers for the next lottery are up; come on, let's go in, and take one jointly."

Arthur thought of his lost portemonnaie, and felt strongly tempted to run the risk of recovering his money in that way; but he remembered that he had nothing wherewith to buy a ticket, and hesitated.

"Don't," said Guly, earnestly, "don't be led into such folly, Arthur. Come, let's go back to the store."

"Not till you have tried your luck once," said Clinton, persuasively; "come, it is but a trifle if you lose it, and think of the chance you run."

"I've left my purse at home," said Arthur, blushing at the falsehood he stooped to utter; "I would really like to join, but can't to-night, really."

"Pooh! if the money is all, I'll advance that; and you can pay me when you like. Come along."

Arthur entered the shop reluctantly, it is true, yet ashamed to confess to his social, open-hearted companion, the compunction he felt. The ticket was purchased, and half given to Arthur.

"If you are determined to purchase a ticket, Arthur," said Guly, gravely, "I must insist that you do not run in debt to Mr. Clinton for it," and opening his purse, he handed to that gentleman the sum just expended for his brother's half of the ticket.

"You are very particular," remarked Clinton, with something like a sneer, and pocketing the change, while he glanced with a look of impertinent curiosity at Guly's grave but beautiful features.

"Do you go our way?" inquired Arthur, turning toward him as they left the shop.

"No; sorry to say I don't," returned Clinton, lighting a cigar, and offering one to each of the brothers, who refused it. "I am really sorry to part with you; but if you must go, good-night," and with a graceful move of the hand, the young gentleman bade an adieu to his friends, and turning down another street, was soon out of sight.

The brothers walked on for some distance in silence. Guly was the first to speak.

"Have you enjoyed your walk, Arthur, as much as you would have done, had we been left to enjoy ourselves in our own way?"

"Well, I must say, Guly, that I've had a pleasant time. I think young Clinton a charming fellow, and must confess he has enlivened the last hour exceedingly."

"And your heart and conscience are both quite as unburthened as they would have been had you not met him?"

"I'm sure I've done nothing to burden either, Gulian," returned Arthur, somewhat impatiently. "You must remember I am several years older than you are, and am expected to act differently from a mere boy like yourself."

"Did you remember that yesterday was your twenty-first birthday?" inquired Guly, quietly.

"No!" said Arthur, with a slight start; "and your sixteenth birthday was last Monday! How differently have they passed from what they used to do at home, when they were always celebrated together."

"Mother must have remembered us yesterday," remarked Guly. "How she would have loved but to look over here upon us!"

"I would not have had her seen me yesterday!" exclaimed Arthur, warmly, "for all the wealth this city ever saw. Her heart would have broken."

"Yet you persist in recognizing your yesterday's companions, and in a measure practising yesterday's pursuits. Mother never allowed wine to make its appearance on our birthday-fetes, my brother."

"True, but that was in the North, and our parents were always very strict. What would you have me do when I meet such a social companion as Clinton? He has such a pleasant, happy way with him, that one really can't refuse him; and for my part, a glass of wine, more or less, will hurt nobody, I guess, materially."

"The social glass has been many a man's ruin, dear Arthur; and it is better to resist temptation in the beginning, than to fight the influence of liquor in the end. I wish I could coax you to promise never to taste another drop."

"What folly," said Arthur, laughing. "Why, my little Puritan, as long as it is the custom here, why not indulge a little? I think I can promise you never to be intoxicated. I shall shun that. But when I'm with young men of such habits, it would seem very odd in me to refuse, and I must now and then take a harmless glass."

"Then, Arthur, why not choose companions of different habits? You certainly will admit such a course is wrong for any young man. See the influence even, which Clinton's society has had upon you this evening. He has really induced you to think such practices here are allowable, and even commendable. This morning, without arguing the case, you voluntarily confessed it to be very wrong. Oh, Arthur, I already begin to wish we were out of this dreadful place."

"You are a chicken-hearted little body," returned Arthur, playfully; then speaking more gravely, he continued: "Well, Guly, it is not, after all, so much my fault. I am of an age to wish to enjoy myself. I have been accustomed to having every comfort and happiness around me; the fond love and refined society of a mother, together with the noble presence and good advice of our father. Look at the change! We have come here poor, but with delicate and luxurious tastes. We have no father, no mother, no home. One rough and dingy apartment to sleep in, is the only spot we can look upon and call ours, and that we share in common with the refuse lumber of the store and a colony of spiders and bedbugs. Beyond our washer-woman, we haven't the acquaintance of a single member of the other sex in this city; and, apart from each other, not one to call a friend. It isn't a very pleasant state of affairs to reflect upon, Guly; and this morning, when I lay alone up stairs on the bed, I couldn't keep from thinking that these wealthy merchants who employ so many clerks have much to answer for."

"How so, Arthur? You surely couldn't expect a merchant to direct and govern the private pursuits of every young man in his employ?"

"No, surely not. Those clerks who have their homes and relatives here in the city, are well enough off; but when, like us, they come from the North, without even an acquaintance here, wouldn't it be better, not only for the clerks, but for the merchant himself, if he would show a little kindly interest in them and their welfare? Here, for instance, are ourselves: Mr. Delancey was made acquainted by our first letter with all the train of circumstances which forced us to this course. He is well aware that our family is as good as his own, and why then has he not said to us that we would be welcome visitors at his house, and thus given us one place where we might occasionally spend our leisure hours, and call it home? Would it not at once have placed us in our own sphere, and kept us from looking for social friends among strangers, of whose character we know nothing? With the firm standing and position that Mr. Delancey has here in society, to have taken this kindly notice of us could not have lowered or affected him one particle in the social scale, and would have placed us in that position which we have ever been accustomed to occupy. It would have bound us more closely to him; and instead of clerks, coldly and rigidly performing our assigned duties for him, it would have rendered us his grateful and sincere friends, happy to do aught in our power, either in or out of business hours, which would oblige him or advance his interests. At least, I know this would be the case with me, and I think that when I speak for one I do for both."

"I must admit, Arthur, that you are right. Though I have not quite as impulsive a heart as yourself, and am not nearly as proud-spirited, I cannot always bear meekly the curtness and harshness with which Mr. Delancey treats us. And with clerks, as a general thing, it is certainly more for an employer's interest to win them as closely as possible to himself; for, of course, if he forces them to seek companionship among whomsoever they may meet, and they fall into low and dissipated habits, which renders them unfit for business, then, of a necessity, that interest suffers; and were I the employer in such a case, I am sure I could not hold myself entirely free from blame."

"Oh, in such a case, the employer thinks no farther than to give a clerk his walking papers, and to show him the door. They never pause to remember that they were probably the primal cause of his downfall; neither will they make amends, by even giving him the good name he brought to them, for another situation. When I reflect upon these things, Guly, sometimes there's a great deal of bitterness comes up in my heart, which I cannot keep down, though I try ever so hard."

"Never let it rise there, Arthur. While we both live, dear brother, we are certain of one heart that is as true as life itself. Let us cling close to one another, and try and be happy and contented together, and no harm, save sickness and death, can approach us. In loving one another, we are but being true to ourselves."

They had by this time reached the store door, and as Guly ceased speaking, Arthur stepped upon the step, and placing both hands on his brother's shoulders, held him a little way from him, and looked earnestly into the beautiful eyes raised up to meet his own.

"Guly, whatever happens—though I hope and am sure nothing will that is unfortunate or sad to me or between us—try and love me all the same; forget my faults and remember my virtues—if I have any; I want always to think of your heart as trusting mine, and loving me."

He looked away for a moment, with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the ground, then parting the hair from his brother's brow, he bent down hastily and kissed it, as if from an impulse which he could not resist.

Guly looked wonderingly up in his face for a moment, then drew him away into the shadow of the archway adjoining, and, laying his head upon his shoulder, wept.

"Love you, Arthur!" he exclaimed, throwing both arms about his brother, and drawing him close to his heart; "Through all and through everything, come what might or may, I can never love or trust you less than now. Your happiness is my prayer and watch-word; all I ask of you, dear, is but to be true to yourself and me."

"Bless you, Guly—there! don't shed any more tears—we shall henceforth, I am sure, be very happy together."

"Then, what prompted you to speak so strangely and forebodingly?"

"I could not define the feeling, if I should try. It was nothing more than a flitting shadow, cast from my restless spirit upon my heart. Come, let's go in."