a swan's; genius was to give light to her eyes and eloquence to her words; and you, sister-you, on my marriage-day, were to have placed the blossoms of orange flower in the dark hair of my bride. You remember it, don't you? Well, my bride is fair, very fair; but not like the bride we had imagined, or rather that we had foreseen; for, sister, we have seen her, have we not, walking in beauty by our sides? Have we not gazed upon her till we have fancied her a thing too bright, too lovely, for the earth she treads. upon? My bride was not kissed by you; she stood by my side and you were not there to say, "God bless her!" She put her cold hand into mine and looked steadily into my face; there was no colour in her cheek-no emotion in her voice. It was all as calm as the life that lies before me. Mary, you had better write and wish me joy, and tell Ellen to wish me joy too; but do not show my letter to your husband: it is not calm enough for his inspection.—Yours, dear Mary, ever yours, HENRY LOVELL.'

There was something inexpressibly painful to me in the tone of this letter; it seemed the sequel of one part of my last conversation with Henry; a pure and innocent existence, he had said, must be sacrificed, and doomed to hopeless disappointment if I persisted in my refusal. I had persisted, and Alice was sacrificed, though to what I knew not; but to some mysterious necessity-to some secret obligation. A loveless marriage, a lonely passage through life, and God only knew what secret trials, what withering of the heart, what solitude of the soul, what measure of that hope deferred which makes the heart sick, of that craving void which nothing fills, were to be hers who had grown up and blossomed like the rose in the wilderness, and who had been, like her own poor flower, too rudely transplanted, doomed perhaps like it to wither and to die. It was strange that, never

having seen Alice but once, I should have felt such a deep and complete conviction of her goodness and purity, of the angelic nature of the spirit which was shrouded in that fair form; that as the idea of guilt in her intercourse with Henry, so now, that of worldliness, of ambition, or of indelicacy, in having made this secret marriage, never presented itself to my mind. Perhaps it might yet turn out well; he might grow to love and to prize her, and she would stand between him and me like an angel of peace. He could not but admire the faultless beauty of her face, the poetical nature of her mind, the calm simplicity of her character. I said this to myself; but, while I said it, my heart whispered a denial. I knew Henry too well. I had seen too clearly what he admired in me, what subdued him in some measure to my influence, even in his fiercest moments of irritation. It was the very points in my mind and character which were most different from hers. The very defects in myself that made me look upon her, as a lost and ruined sinner might gaze on a picture of the blessed Virgin,—these very defects were what riveted and enthralled him. His last words rang in my ears as I looked on his blotted and hasty signature, and my heart sunk within me as I felt 'that all was not over between us.'

The next letter I read was from Mr. Lovell; it was thus worded:

'MY DEAR MARY-Your affection for your brother has always been so great that I dread the effect which my present communication will have upon you. It will take you by surprise as it has done me. That Henry should give us subjects of regret and annoyance would be no strange occurrence, but that he (the goodness of whose understanding, at least, has never been called in question)—that he should have acted in so deplorably foolish a manner is

more than one would be prepared for; the natural refinement of his character alone might have preserved him from a connection which is really disgraceful. It is better to tell you the fact at once, for you certainly could never have imagined or foreseen such an event. Your brother, without having made the slightest communication to me or to any one else, as far as I can find out, married last Thursday, at Bromley Church, the granddaughter of the woman who was your nurse and afterwards his. He looks wretchedly ill and unhappy, and gives no explanation of his conduct further than by repeating that, as he was certain that I would not give my consent to his marriage (and he is right there), he thought it best to put the matter at once beyond discussion. In some ways, bad as it is, it might have been worse. I find that the girl is only seventeen-very handsome-has been well brought up for a person in her rank of life, and has a fortune of £5000. I have refused to see her, as I am determined to mark my indignation to Henry in the strongest manner; and I never, under any circumstances, will consent to see her relations, who have behaved, in my opinion, as ill as possible in hurrying on this marriage.

'Some time hence it may be advisable to notice his wife, and, for his sake, to try as much as possible to withdraw her from the society and the influence of her relations; but this will be a subject for after-consideration.

'And now, my dear Mary, God bless you. I feel for you, as I know you will for me, in this unpleasant affair. I hope your beautiful Ellen will not take to heart this abominable marriage. Mr. Middleton was perfectly right in preventing her from throwing herself away on that worthless brother of yours; but I wish with all my heart they had eloped together. Your affectionate father,

'WILLIAM LOVELL.'

Mrs. Tracy's letter was as follows :—

'MADAM―The announcement of Mr. Lovell's marriage with my granddaughter, Alice, will probably have surprised you disagreeably. As he has, I find, written by this day's post to communicate it to you, I take the liberty of addressing to you a few lines on the subject. I grieve that myself or any one belonging to me should be the means of causing you grief or annoyance. But, madam, remember who it was that said, "Judge not, and you shall not be judged; condemn not, and you shall not be condemned." Obey that injunction now, and visit not the sins of others on an angel of goodness and purity,—the dust of whose feet some whom you cherish in your bosom are not worthy to wipe off. I love you, Mrs. Middleton, and would not willingly give you pain; but do not try me too severely by ill-usage of that child, whom my dying son bequeathed to me, and who is now your brother's wife. As God will judge one day betwixt you and me, be kind to her; her presence and her prayers may sanctify your home, and bring down a blessing on your head. If you are tempted to say in your heart, "Why did this angel of goodness and purity consent to a secret marriage ?-why did this saint, whose prayers are to bring down a blessing on our home, enter our family without our sanction ?"-if you are tempted to say this, Mrs. Middleton -yet say it not. Alice has lived alone with her flowers and with her bible. She has never opened a novel; she has never conversed with any one but me, and with him who is now her husband, and that but little. She knows nothing of the world and its customs. She was asked, as Rebecca was asked "Wilt thou go with this man?" and she said, "I will go." I told her it was her duty to marry Mr. Lovell, and she married him; and if you should say, Mrs. Middleton, that it was not her duty to marry him, and that I deceived her as well as you again I say, "Judge not, condemn not;" and thus you may escape a fearful judgment--an awful condemnation.'

'Is not that letter the very height of cant and impertinence?' said my aunt, as I laid it down on the table.

It is a strange letter,' I answered; 'but what she says of Alice I am certain must be true. It tallies exactly with the impression she made upon me, and with what I should have supposed her part to have been in the whole affair.'

'But how can her grandmother justify her own conduct to herself, if it is so ?'

'God only knows,' I answered; 'but if you love me, my dearest aunt-if you wish me to be happy-if my supplications have any weight with you

'If they have, Ellen ?'

'No, no!' I exclaimed; 'not if I will not say if they have, for I know they have. I know you love me, and I know that you will do all you can to make Henry happy with Alice. I shall not have a moment's peace if they are not happy.'

'Angel!' said my aunt, as she pressed her lips to my cheek. I drew back with a thrill of horror.

'Never call me an angel-never say that again: I cannot bear it. I am not disclaiming—I am not humble—I am only cowardly. I cannot explain to you everything; indeed, I hardly know if I understand myself, or Henry, or anything; but thus much I do know, that if Alice Tracy has gained his regard-wildly as he talks in that strange letter-if she has a hold on his affections, I shall bless her every day of my life; she will have saved me from inexpressible misery. Oh, my dearest dear aunt, write to Henry, write to Alice today-immediately: do not wait for my uncle's permissionwrite at once.'

I seized on the inkstand, and putting paper and pen before her, I stood by in anxious expectation. She sighed heavily, and then said to me :

'Ellen, will you never again speak openly to me? If you