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keen observer might deteet mueh anxiety under this assumed gayety. "I suppose Louis and yourself have quarrelled, and are both too proud to make the first aeknowledgment, and be friends again."

"Not so, sister, I assure you," replied Ellen. "Louis is unwavering in love and kindness, ever the same. It is I whe have ehanged, if ehange there be, sinee our engagement was made."

"You do not mean, surely, that you love him less, or not at all ?" eagerly asked Holoise.

"No, no, Heloise, do not mistake me; I eould not love him more than I do, and I believe, were anything to oeeur to prevent our marriage, my life would be one desolate blank. But, sister, I do fear at times for his future happiness with me, as well as for my own. It is this that makes me melanehely."

"Why sheuld you fear, Ellen? Are there any partieular reasons for your anxiety?"

"Yes, Heloise, there are many; our dispositions are so different, and so unlike. I would be gay, and partake of every enjoyment, regardless of eonsequenees; while he prefers quiet, seeks but soeial pleasures, and would not swerve from the striet line of duty and prineiple for an instant for any motive upon earth. Somehew, I shrink from the life of privation I fear will eommenee with my marriage."

"Why you sheuld pieture to yourself a life of privation, I eannot think, Ellen. Louis St. Clair is engaged in a very luerative business, whieh, with eare, sheuld enable him to live handsomely, and, in a few years, renounee altogether its pursuits."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Ellen, hastily, "with eare; theso aro the very words that annoy me. I eannot bear the theught of eonstant eare as to the indulgenee of this or that wish, and I really sometimes dread the future."

"What is there in being properly eareful so very terrifying to my little sister?" asked Heloise. "Surely you ore not sueh a ehild, Ellen, as to expeet to go through life as through a higbly eultivated garden, eulling only the eheieest flowers, uneonseious of the existenee of a single weed? You must have helier, higher, deeper views of life in its reality."

"I hepe I have, Heloise; but, for all that, it is life in its realities I shrink from; and I have diseovered very lately that Louis, with all his love, is not blind to my imperfeetions, Ho has diseerned that I am ehangeable in my purposes: a diseovery I never made myself, and whieh, altheugh I eannot deny, I do not feel obliged to him for observing."

"Then, Ellen, you sheuld begin at onee to remedy what you aeknowledge to be a defeet in your eharaeter, and be really thankful you have been made aware of it in time to do so before it affeet, in the slightest manner, the happiness of others than yourself. You know your every wish has hitherto been indulged, and life has been one uninterrupted day of pleasure; but, in now assuming the duties of the lnarriod state, you must expeet to undergo the

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J vieissitudes of time with womanly eourage, hepe,

{ and eonfidenee."

j "Yes, my dear Heloise, I suppose I sheuld; but

I preeisely as my life has hitherto been a pleasant one, and my every wish almost a law immediately

j obeyed, do I dislike the task of remodelling my dis

> position to suit any one; and I fear me, if Louis j has already diseovered faults, his diseerning eye j will, in all prohahility, deteet others quite as glari ing." Rising hastily, as she spoke, Ellen paeed the j room with a eloud upon her usually gay eountei nanee.

j "Well, Ellen; and does his manner betray less

j of love sinee then V asked Heloise. "Man usually

; loves most that whieh requires his guidanee; his

i prido being gratified by the implied aeknowledg

\ ment of superiority it gives to rely upon him. Be

5 lieve me, your ehangeable disposition will suit him

! better, if he is firm, than if you were more like him;

! altheugh I would not have you ehildisbly fiekle

> either: your own good sense must guide you; and remember, Ellen, that, above all other qualities in a

j wife, amiahility is most eommendable. Come, elear

j your brow, I want to see you smile again; you are

5 only too happys and eannot realize it."

j "Perhaps so, sister," answered EUen; "and the idea of quarrelling with my own happiness is so ridieulous, that I eannot avoid smiling at it . The

j eventful day is near at hand, and I only hepe we

t will never regret it."

f "You surely never will, Ellen, if you aet wisely

t yourself. I do eandidly believe that a woman mhy

I be happy or unhappy after marriage, as she herself

j wills it; that is, where thero is love to guido both."

\ "Yes, sister, I know you think so," interrupted

i Ellen, as she now reseated herself; "and, as you

j endow the wife with sueh supreme power, I hepe to

! verify your belief in my own praetiee. You havo

> effeetually hanished the misgivings I entertained i lately, and I shall trust implieitly to your assurI anees for the future. But where are the ehildren? s We have forgotten them." And, rising hastily, j Ellen liberated the eaptives under the eommand of i Charles.

; Leaving her to partieipate in their innoeent mirth,

I we will now introduee more fully to our readers the

\ eharaeters with whem they sheuld beeome aequaint

i ed; eommeneing, of eourso, with our heroine, Ellen,

! of whese position and prospeets in life we have al

i ready spoken. The daughter, and the youngest,

j too, of wealthy parents, she had been indulged in

I every wish, and her frank, affeetionate disposition,

> whieh endeared her to all, saved her from being a

> mere spoiled pet . Mueh admired and eourted in ! soeiety, she had seleeted as her most favored suitor,

> mueh to the surprise of her gay friends, Louis St. 5 Clair, a young man of gentlemanly appearanee and i address, but whese quiet, reserved manner sorved to { eontrast strongly with her gayety and animation. { He was one of these sterling eharaeters so worthy of respeet and admiration, yet so rarely appreeiated, whem we might oftener meet, did we but pause to inquire beyond the mere surfaee. As in gazing in the sunlight upon the night-blooming flower, we pereeive no traee of the fragranee and beauty lavished upon the evening's zephyrs, nor deteet that the plant possesses more than beauty of growth and form, so in life is many a noble soul unknown and unheeded, beeause it eould not ostentatiously display its prieeless worth. Ellen Montrose, hewever, was not insensible to his quiet merit, and all of her heart's young love was lavished upon him, whe fully prized and returned it.

His business was, as Heloise had deseribed it, a luerative one; and, possessing the power of surrounding himself with eomforts, and even luxuries, be heped, in sharing his heme with Ellen, to realize all of happiness that his wildest dreams had pietured. Thus entering life upon a pathway literally strewn with flowers, why sheuld Ellen Montrose have these fears she named to her sister? Beeause few girls so young—for she was searee eighteen— eon realize the praetieal duties of life until brought direetly in eontaet with them. Can a young girl, to whem love is one bright, romantie dream, and marriage but the assuranee of its reality, imagine that a wish of her own would ever be at varianee with the desire of the loved one? or that he, to whem she is now so dear, would ever pause to question her will, hewever arhitrary? No; few look beyond the present sunny heur; and it was beeause, in the depth and ferveney of her love, Ellen would eneompass her whelo existenee and make it all his, that she felt and feared so mueh. Let us follow these young hearts as they proeeed onward in life, and mark the influenee of worldlg eare upon their now undivided feelings.

Wo will not attempt a deseription of the splendor, brillianey, and joyousness of the gay file whieh attended the eelebration of their nuptials, or of the beautiful bride whe, radiant as a bright star, surrounded by her searee less beautiful satellites, was led by Louis St. Clair to the altar, and there, with willing heart and in firm tone, pronouneed the vow that made her his forever j nor ean we follow them through their wild eareer of pleasure, as they ore seen, again and again, the gayest amid the gay of "these admiring friends whe sought and eourted them.

Two years hove passed ere we revert to them. During the early period of her married life, Ellen, now Mrs. St. Clair, was the gayest of the gay; but now she sought less frequently the erowded saloon, and busy friends eonjeetured that either Ellen St . Clair was not happy, or her hushand and self were as selfiebly indifferent to friendships as most young married people usually beeome; even lleloiso was perplexed, for even to her Ellen was ehanged, but still affeetionate, and she eould not ask her why it was.

Could she have preeeded Louis, as eaeh day he

; sought his heme, and seen Ellen, as she heard his

. footstep, rise, unable for an instant to eheek the ira

\ pulse impelling her to meet him before he reaehed

; the apartment she oeeupied, then, with an effort at

; self-eommand, quietly reseat herself, and wait to

| salute him with a smile only as he entered, she

j might have guessed the truth; but, shrinking from

: intrusion upon the private feelings of her dearly

: loved sister, she sought not very frequently to visit

, her, heping that Ellen's first lessons in the book of

i life would not eventually determine in unhappine&s. ! And Louis, was he ehanged? Ay. He, whose

j ardent nature seemed to demand a eontinual expres

: sion, by manner, of affeetion, would seem satisfied

: with this eold greeting, and, book in hand, we find

: him heur after heur deeply engaged. A elose ob

i server might frequently deteet an anxious, earnest glanee bestowed upon Ellen, as she busied herself.

I or ehanged her oeeupation; but she saw it not, and

; many a smothered sigh nearly eseaped her lips as

j she felt his negleet, and found him, if she stole a

\ glanee at him, apparently absorbed with the book

! be held.

| This mode of life was not suddenly brought about;

\ it had been by slow degrees; nor was there wanting

i altogether between them kindness of manner. But

j where was the glad weleome, and the eonstant,

5 eheerful attention to eaeh other whieh eharaeterized

j their early married days? Gone; ay, gone. And

j so gradually had this ehange been wrought, the'

/ neither seemed to be aware of it, and yet both suf

5 fered deeply. Often had Ellen resolved to break

s the spell; but, as he too was silent, she strove t«

5 subdue her wishes for more eertain proofs of affee

j tion than this quiet kindness afforded, and tried to

\ teaeh herself it was not reasonable to expeet all thr

! deveted attention of former days. It was a hard

; task to seheol that young heart, with its warm im

< pulses and ardent love; and many, and often times,

j as he hade her good morning, and, with only a

j smile, left her alone, she sought the solitude of her

J own ehamber, and wept long and hitterly that so

i soon Louis had learned to love her less. Nor was

! this all; for, added to this, frequently had it hap

! pened that her earnestly expressed wish to obtain

> or aeeomplish on objeet met no approval, and was

; apparently unheeded by him. These little trials,

; unexpeeted as they were, had aided to estrange them

; still more; and, as Ellen had often seen his brow

< elouded for some time after sueh oeeurrenees, she

\ learned to think she had angered him, and in silenee

; bore the pain sueh a supposition inflieted. J Time thus wore on; but, of late, Ellen's heart

: throbbed still more violently at his entranee, as she

'< observed a pallor of eountenanee unusual to him,

i and a restlessness of manner whieh spoke to her

'1 fears of bodily ailment, and eonsequently alarmed her. To her kind inquiries, he assured her of his

'. perfeet health ; and, not daring to urge an explana

i tion of the eause, theugh eertain a eause existed,

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her health suffered with the oppression of her aeeumulated anxieties.

"I must leave you on the morrow, Ellen," said Louis St. Clair, abruptly, to her one evening, "and may not return for some time. Perhaps," he added, as he saw her eheeks lose their eolor while he spoke, "ono of your sister's ehildren will remain with you while I am gone, as you may bo lonely."

For a moment, every pulsation of her heart eeased, as eaeh word had been so ealmly uttered it had smote her heavily; then rising, and struggling to hide her emotion, she sought to leave the room; but her trembling limbs refused their support, and, sinking exhausted upon the nearest seat, tears uneontrollable gushed from the fountains of her overeharged heart.

Surprised and terrified at the exhihition of a grief so overwhelming, Louis in a moment elasped her to his heart, and begged, with endearing earnestness, to know its eause.

"Let me weep, Louis, or my heart will break," she said, after a few moments. "It is not exaetly that you are to leave me now I grieve; but," she added, impetuously, "I eannot longer live as we have lived lately. Yon, whem I love as my own existenee, ean leave me witheut one earess, to pass the long, lonely heurs, and eount the moments until yon return; and then, when my heart bounds with joy to meet you, I reeeive but a ehill salutation, sometimes searee a look of reeognition; and then you ealmly oeeupy yourself with pursuits in whieh I ean have no share. It is this, Louis, that saddens me, and is wearing away not only my health, but every wish that one so young would naturally have for life; for, witheut your love, life is not desirable; and I have only now to beg that, if you really love me not, you will in merey hide the fearful truth."

"Ellen, Ellen, I pray you be ealm," he interrupted. "I eannot let you speak thus. I had not dreamed of this, and have mueh to speak of; for I, too, am not happy. I have doubted you."

"Doubted my love, Louis? No, no, it eould not be! You, for whem I have renouneed every one, even my own dear sister, kind as she ever is, as I eould not bear she sheuld know my grief, else she might have blamed you. No, no, Louis, you eould not doubt me!"

"Yes, Ellen, I have. It is a long, long time sinee I first missed the light footsteps that hastened to meet me whenever I eame, and many months have passed sinee I reeeived a joyous weleome to this, our onee happy heme, and have wondered why it was, as I knew no eause. During the past year, I have known many new eores, and have sought my heme with oppressed heart, where, had my Ellen loved me as I onee fondly believed, I eould not have long pondered in silenee; but, met with reserve and eoldness by one wheso impulsive nature I theught eould not be eontrolled, I have been foreed to believe the heart was ehanged, and there was a hitterness in the

\ theught that at times almost unmanned me. I ; struggled long, Ellen, against the fearful belief; but j it would haunt me, and my manner must have bo{ trayed it . But now"

> "Now," she interrupted, joyfully, "I have been J mistaken, and you love me still! Oh, Louis, I would

purehase the joy this assuranee gives with all the ■ pain of the past, for wo never ean mistake eaeh other again; and oh, it is hitter to think that ono to i whem we are bound by all the ties that make life s dear, would even in theught desert us! I know my

i follies have often justly angored you; but"

j "Angry with yon, I never was. I know why you think so; and, to eonvinee you, I will tell you now what I theught you sheuld never know, as I would have spared you the anxiety it would neeessarily eause. It was not long after our marriage, when I diseovered inaeeuraeies in my aeeounts whieh puziled and alarmed me; with diffieulty, I diseovered : their auther. I regret to even tell you hew treaoh{ erously my partner abused my trust in him; and, when led on by the influenee of his giddy young ! wife, you proposed first one then another expensive ! pleasure, whieh, in my emharrassment, I well knew 'I eould not afford, I theught, by evasion and appaj rent forgetfulness, to eause you to relinquish them, j witheut giving you the pain of a positivo refusal, or this explanation, now due to you, as well as myself." < "And then it was all in very love for me, instead ! of anger! Oh, Louis, ean you ever forgive me for j trifling so wilfully with your happiness and my own? | To think that I eould not see you had enough of eare witheut my annoying ehildishness, and that, in \ your most trying heur, I sheuld have deserted you! I 1 eannot forgive myself. I am not worthy of you." j "You must not reproaeh yourself alone, Ellen, for I sheuld have seen that you waited for proofs of j affeetion from me; but I was too selfisbly absorbed \ with my own eares, and the fault is equally mine." t "No, no, Louis, the fault is mine alone; and I j ean only say, in extenuation of it, that I forgot there I sheuld be no pride between hushand and wife, and, t wearied with waiting in vain for your proffered ea? ress, I determined, after a long time, to bestow none

> myself unasked."

j "And, my dear Ellen, being so long aeeustomed ; to reeeive gladly all you bestowed, I only realized { hew dear they were when altogether deprived of

> them. Let it be a lesson for the future, Ellen; for, \ with hushand and wife, there sheuld be neither fnho j pride nor want of eonfidenee. Our happiness has i trembled fearfully; and now"

j "Now, Louis, were it not for your pale eheek and j eareworn look, I eould bo happy. But why do you i let this trouble in business annoy you so mueh? j You know we eould easily live upon less, if it must | be, and you sheuld not hesitate at any step, hew' ■ ever severe, if neeessary."

j "This is why I go to-morrow, Ellen. The events of the next week are to deeide whether my Ikw whieh I have tried to bear through life untarnished, Trill stand or not; and, if it does not, my Ellen, it

will require all your love to roeeive again" he

paused in agitation, as the horrid supposition of a blemished reputation presented itself.

"Hush, hush, Louis !" she exelaimed; "do not let even these walls hear you utter a thought so unjust to yourself. You must hope, Louis; and, hoping, and fearing not, you will surely sueeeed. It eannot bo that errors deteeted so quiekly ean produee sueh fearful eonsequenees. Only be ealm, and let not that horrid supposition ever present itself again; for Louis St. Cluir will never be less esteemed among men than now."

u Bless you, my noble wife !" he exelaimed, as bf pressed her to his heart; u for this assuranee, ecrt from you, gives me hope. And, as the eloud white so long hovered o'er our dornestie peaee has £ length passed on and left us unharmed, so may il eease to o'ershadow the name whieh, for your sake more than my own, I would proudly bear

That the assuranees of his wife were fully realiiei we must believe, when we see ther n as now, after the lapse of many years, surrounded by all that wealth ean give, happy in eaeh other's love, and the now matronly, but still beautiful Ellen, the happy mother of ehildren beautiful and interesting as th< group we first presented her arnong.

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"From yon blue heavens abovo us bont,
The gardener Adam and his wife
ftmile at the elaims of long deseent

Howe'er it be, it secDis to mo
'Tit onlg noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than eoronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood."


"YouK pupils are not in the heuse, I believe," said Colonel Haywood, eourteously. "I have sent Maumer Fanny to look for them; she knows all their haunts. I am speaking of the ehildren, hewever, now; Edward is in town with John. You will find them very wild, I have no doubt, sinee their— sinee they have been left to their maumer's eare."

Colonel Haywood had not yet learned to speak of his wife's death before strangers. His faee flushed slightly even now, and Philip Anson, the new tutor, notieed it, but seemed absorbed in watehing the beautiful landseape . It was all so new to his Northern eyes; tho broad, uninelosed fields, with their foam-like waves of snowy eotton; the gnarled, spreading oaks, heavy with the heary moss, that swayed lightly to and fro in the rising evening wind; the delieious softness of a Southern sunset sky, to whieh he was not yet aeeustomed.

They were standing in the poreh, or piazza, at whieh Philip had dismounted; and, looking down the avenue, a merry equestrian party eame in sight. Two lads, in linen blouses and broad straw hats, mounted on the same patient steed; while, galloping haekwards and forwards, now wheeling around them, now dashing far ahead, on a pony as wild as herself. May Haywood, the eolonel's only daughter, Mingled her boisterous sheuts of laughter with theirs.

Philip eould but admire the graee of the ehild's movements, and the fearless ease with whieh she managed her pony; but he thenght her a sad madeap, nevertheless, and wondered what his demure little sister, whe was doubtless knitting her stoeking at that very moment, would have said to this heydenish gallop. She throw herself from the saddle as she saw her father upon the poreh, and eame up with a half shy, half assured manner, to be introdueed to her new teaeher.

"Mr. Anson, May," said her father, gravely, for be was struek more foreibly than ever with her need of earo and restraint . It may be that he saw with Philip's eyes just then. Vol. Xlv.—39


t B. RKAL.

j She gave her hand to him frankly, and looked up 5 into his faee with a bright, winning smile— !" You won't make me study Latin, will you ?" she j said. "George says you will, and he hates Latin \ I'm sure I shall, if it 's hard. I hate to study." i "Do you ?" said the young tutor, amused and interested. With all her fearlessness, there was something very feminine in the light of her large gray < eyes, and the smile of her finely eurved mouth. There v was an air of inborn pride and resolution in it, too,

< andt in the haughty areh of the white throat, an air j rarely notieeable in a ehild. The delieately pen

< eilled eyebrows, the long, dark lashes, the small ? earved ear, all eontributed to this, and her hair was j drawn entirely haek from her forehead, after the t fashion of our grandmothers. For the rest, her j dress was plain in the material, and earelessly put t on. She had one of her brother's broad straw hats in j her hand, hanging by its blaek ribbon, and a eape

5 of eommon ehintz only proteeted her neek and arms.

> But the pieture suited the landseape; and Philip I Anson, with an artist's eye, admired it, withent one ! theught of the beautiful human soul that was awaitj ing his development.

j It was a solitary life to one aeeustomed to the stir and hum of a Northern eity, or the dear eom

i panionship of eollege friends. The same unvaried routine, little eompany or ehange to interrupt their

j morning's studies, the afternoon ride or ramble. Colonel Haywood was mueh away from heme, the ehildren left in his absenee to the eare of his innumerable heuseheld, in whieh Maumer Fanny held the plaee of autherity. When there, he was always eourteous, theugh somewhat reserved; thanked Philip for the improvement, both in mind and manner, of his pupils, and often eonversed with him in the library, whieh, theugh small, was well ehesen, on matters of general history and politieal interest. When he was away, Philip was left with no other eompanionship but his own theughts, his books, and the ehildren. The overseer was an intelligent, but entirely unedueated man, busy on the plantation from early morning until late at night. The pieturesque traits of negro eharaeter were a matter of amusement at first, and, o?oourse, after a little time, had made their serviees natural, and even neeessary to him, so all subjeets of real interest were eonfined to a very narrow eirele.

Edward and John were his two eldest pupils. The ehildren, as the three youngest were ealled,


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