despise myself for the word. My faith in him shall not

waver."

Delaval, impatiently snatching a letter from the parcel, unfolded it by the side of the crumpled paper he held in his hand, and carefully compared them, word with word, letter with letter. Florence leaned over his shoulder, bending her 3 head lower and lower, her lately illumined countenance grow- ing darker and darker, as the irresistible conviction forced itself upon her, that they were written by the same hand. Delaval raised his eyes one moment to hers, and she read the same conviction in that stern, yet burning glance.

"No, this is no forgery," he cried. "The circumstances to which this letter refers are known only to him, Patterson, and myself. Even if the characters did not prove it with such damning fidelity, the contents would be sufficient. I knew that he was to address him on this very subject. Here are the very words I myself uttered the last time I conversed with him. I never breathed them to another human being. I requested him to repeat the same to Patterson. Yes; these are my own words, and this is his own handwriting. And, look, Florence, the selfsame paper, too, with his ciphers stamped upon it. He got it at the North. We visited the paper-mill together where it was made, and both of us ordered some with our initials pressed on the corner of the sheet. Florence, he is a villain. Every shadow of a doubt is swept away. He is a most consummate villain."

No," she replied, with bloodless lips, "I recall my own rash words. He has revealed his naked heart to another, not to me. I, I have done the whole. I have outraged his deliсасу, alienated his affection, and with my own hand murdered his love. And yet," she added, with a kindling countenance, "how dare he attempt to transfer me to another? How dare he insult me so coldly, so deliberately? This I never, never can forgive.”

While Florence was speaking, the truth of what she had previously said came forcibly into the mind of Delaval. This

was a private letter, not intended for their perusal; it was the expression of one man's feelings to another; the liberty of mind, the republicanism of thought. By a public act of vengeance, he would only blazon the affair to the world, and make his sister's name a byword, to be banded from lip to lip with mockery and reproach. Blood would not efface the impression. It would only give it a more hideous glare.

"Yes," muttered he to himself, "she is right. There are some wrongs that cannot be avenged, and this is one. It is no wonder he looks down upon us, when we have worshipped him as if he were some eastern divinity. Heavens, Florence!" he exclaimed, walking backward and forward, like a caged lion, "I would give Wood Lawn, and all the lawns in creation, if I owned them, that I had never abetted you in your wild frolie of writing those foolish letters, and still more do I mourn your infatuation in assuming that romantic and anheard-of disguise. I ought to be shot this moment, for not proving a better guardian to your reckless youth. We have made him arrogant and presumptuous; we have forgotten our own self-respect.”

"Do not say we, George," said Florence, in a tone of deep and touching humility. “Mine alone is the folly, and mine alone be the punishment. Most bitterly have I repented of

my girlish forwardness; but I was a mere child then, a creature of impulse and passion. Alas! I am still the same; the same impulsive, impassioned being, untaught by experience, and undisciplined by reason."

“Experience ”” cried Delaval, with bitterness. "Moralists boast of the great world,—master experience,-but I never could discover his merits. He warns us of the past, but we know that already. His lamp throws all its rays backward. I want a guide for the future; and such a future? Shade of Cicero!" Delaval threw himself on the window-seat, and endeavoured to compose his thoughts and deliberate on the course he must adopt The only way was for Florence to return the letters of Marcus, with every memorial of his false love, with a haughty

and positive rejection, without any allusion to the disgraceful letter which had providentially revealed his true character. But Katy; sweet, modest, gentle, loving Katy! How could he tear her from his heart,—that warm, noble, generous heart, where she was so sacredly enshrined? The sister of that false, rejected brother would never consent to be his wife. His letters would be returned, just as that perfumed blue-bound packet was about to be; the rings with which he had encircled her fair fingers, the bracelets he had clasped round her snowy arms,— they would all come back, mocking him with the memory of his past happiness, the thought of his brightest hopes. Wood Lawn would henceforth be a desert to him, the whole world a wilderness. He had a strong mind to shoot himself, he had not promised Florence not to do that. He could do it without perjury, but not without guilt,-guilt "unhouselled, unanointed, unannealed;" so God's voice within, still, small, but deep, whispered, and he groaned at the thought of the cold, dreary, unloving life he was doomed to lead.

"You are unhappy, brother; I have made you so," said Florence, taking his hand in both hers, and laying her cheek gently upon it. "You must not give up Katy for me. She is not to blame; I only am. Rash, imprudent girl that I am. I have brought this on myself. I feel it now, when it is too late."

Delaval drew her closer to him. She had been rash and imprudent. He had told her that before; but he could not reproach her now. He felt too deep a tenderness, too entire a love, too intense a compassion. They sat thus in silenceshe weary and exhausted by her passion and her tears, thankful, in her abandonment and desolation, that one friend was left to sympathize with and care for her, one breast on which she could pillow her aching head and solace her wounded heart.

"You had better go to your room, Florence," said he, gathering up her dishevelled hair and smoothing it back from her shoulders. "Some one might come in. Go and lie down. Your head must ache. I need not caution you not to reveal the cause of your agitation. You have too much pride to betray it."

"Thank you for the warning; I will profit by it," said she, with a sudden flash of spirit, "and thank you for your tenderness, your sympathy, and your promise too-dear, dear George-oh! how I love you for it! I have no one else in the world to love but you, now-for I cared but for one besides," she added, in a low voice, as she left the apartment.

Alone in her own room, she threw herself on the bed, and drawing the fringed curtains closely round her, wrapped herself in darkness as with a mantle. She knew not when night came on, for Delaval had told Letty not to have her disturbed, as she was ill, and wanted no supper. Mrs. Lewis was absent on a visit to a friend-a fortunate circumstance for Florence and the mystery of her grief.

"Is that you, Letty?" asked she, hearing footsteps entering, and perceiving the glimmer of a light through the curtains.

"Yes, Miss Florence, it's me. Shall I bring your supper?” "No; come here, Letty." The negro put down the light, and came softly toward the bed, peeping through the curtains.

"Letty," said Florence, holding out her hand, "I spoke crossly to you. I did not know what I was saying; you must forget it."

"Oh, Miss Florence, don't say that. I no business to stick my ugly nose in your matters, any way-that I haint. I wish I pull out my tongue, I do-saucy old thing."

"Undress me, Letty, and let me sleep. You don't know how sick I feel."

her

Tenderly as if she were fondling an infant, Letty prepared

young mistress for the night's repose, which she feared would not visit her pillow. She combed and brushed her rich, tangled, tear-moistened locks, letting them drip over her black fingers, in blacker, shining curls. There was nothing in the world in which she delighted so much as this, and though her features were so large and coarse, she had remarkably small and delicately-shaped fingers, and her touch was as light as the fabulous Rosa's.

"Thank you," said Florence, suffering her head to fall lan

guidly back on the pillow. "That is soothing. You are a good creature, Letty. I will try never to speak cross to you again. Don't say any thing."

Letty placed the lamp in the chimney, where it could not shine on the face of her young mistress, and seating herself at a distance, remained perfectly still. Florence too was still. It was the torrent's smoothness, after it has dashed over the rocks the lull of the tempest, when its fury has spent.

She slept but it was not rest. Every now and then she would start up, with a faint scream, look wildly round her, close her eyes and fall back again. Once she cried out, "The letter-oh! Marcus-that letter!"

Letty sat in her shaded corner, and "pondered these things in her heart."

Florence rose at the usual hour, and suffered Letty to linger with unusual care over her toilette. Though her head throbbed almost to bursting, she allowed her tire-woman to twist the wild undulation of her tresses around her fingers, as she was wont to do. When she looked in the glass and saw her pallid cheek and altered countenance, she blushed, indignant at her own weakness, and the life came back to her cheek and eye. Delaval met her at the door of the breakfast-room with a brotherly kiss. He was rejoiced to see her looking so much. like herself, and his own stern, joyless countenance brightened as he gazed upon her. But after the first greeting was over, and she believed herself unnoticed, he remarked the gradual subsiding of her spirit. The colour all went away from her cheek, and she sat with weeping lashes, that threw a deeper pallor on her pensive face.

"Come and take a ride on horseback with me, sister," said he, when the breakfast was through, which she scarcely touched. "I want to show you what wonders I have done on the plantation since I have taken the reins in my own hand. That fine jaunt I had with Arnold's negroes was an excellent apprenticeship for me. They thought I was a jewel of a master."

Florence appreciated her brother's motive, and gladly as