will. The phrenologist placed it in the contour of his head, with its broad and high forehead. The artist saw it in the noble position of that head, and in the consummate ease and grace of every movement.

Before Mrs. Mabury had dismounted, Everard Irving had withdrawn from the piazza, leaving Mr. Beresford and his daughter to receive their guests. Their salutations were returned with easy, friendly gayety by Mrs. Mabury-with grave and distant courtesy by Mr. Hastings.

"Well, you have not repented your promise to lend me your pet for a while," said Mrs. Mabury, as she shook hands with Mr. Beresford.

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No, no; I fear the repentance will be on your side when you find out what a plague she is."

The fond expression with which Mr. Beresford's eyes rested on the smiling face of his child, and the caressing movement with which he passed his hand over her head, contradicted his words.

"I have made engagements of all sorts for her," continued Mrs.. Mabury.

"Of all sorts?" inquired Mr. Beresford, playfully.

"Except matrimonial-that I leave for herself; but such numerous and pressing engagements, that we have not a moment to spare: so get ready, love—but stay, will you ride with us, or shall I return with you in your carriage?" "As you please," said Evelyn.

“Nay, nay; it shall be as you please in all things while you are with me."

"You will spoil her, I fear, Mrs. Mabury."

Spoil myself rather, Mr. Beresford; for do you not see it will save me all the trouble of thinking. I shall only have to ask what Evelyn wishes, and decide accordingly. Now, then, Evelyn, do we ride or drive?"

"If I thought you were not fatigued with the ride you

have already taken," Evelyn began, but Mrs. Mabury interrupted her, exclaiming, "Not in the least-not in the least! riding is the only thing of which I never tire; so don your habit."

"And while she is doing so," said Mr. Beresford, “you and Mr. Hastings will walk in and partake of some refreshments. We have still some peaches and grapes here, which, though they may not rival those of Italy, are very fair for America, as an English gentleman informed me a few days since."

We will leave Evelyn to prepare for her ride, and Mr. Beresford to entertain his guests with somewhat of the ceremonious politeness of "the olden time," while we return to the young man who has been introduced to us as Mr. Everard Irving, and who, it may be remembered, withdrew from the piazza at the approach of Mrs. Mabury and Mr. Hastings. Passing on to the opposite extremity of the hall, he paused before a door on his left hand, and knocked gently at it.

"Come in," cried a low and seemingly feeble voice, and he entered.

Reclining on a couch near a window, enveloped in a large shawl, was a young girl who had probably seen some eighteen or nineteen summers. If we could convey to the reader any idea of the singular loveliness of this being, we should be assured of his pardon for adding another to the many sketches which have already given to this chapter something of the character of a portrait gallery. Yet lovely as she was, there was that in her appearance which painfully affected the heart of the gazer, reminding him that earth's loveliest things are often the most fleeting. A slight tinge of pink had risen to her cheek at the entrance of Everard Irving, but it faded even while she was receiving his greeting, leaving her whole face of the pure Parian tint. Her hair,

which was black as night, was drawn entirely off the beautiful forehead and temples, and being gathered into massy folds at the back of the head, was confined there with a small comb. The features were severely classical; but there was a languor in the dreamy gray eye, and about the lovely mouth, which told of suffering not less surely than did the perfectly colorless complexion.

Everard advanced to her with a countenance full of affectionate interest, and taking her hand, said tenderly, "I hope you are better, dear Mary, for I cannot bear to leave you when you are suffering."

"You go this morning, then?" she inquired, as her hand, which had neither been given nor withdrawn, fell from his clasp.

"Yes, I intended doing so, unless," he added slowly, "you wish me to remain.”

Oh, no," she answered quickly, "I have no such wish: on the contrary, I would rather you would not come again till Evelyn returns; it fatigues me to entertain visiters."

"Entertain visiters! Oh, Mary, do not speak to me so coldly. I am sad enough already, without any new trial; and I shall indeed think it right to distrust all love, if that of my earliest friend-my sister-can change so suddenly and so causelessly."

The whole manner of the young girl underwent an instant and complete alteration. Resting on his the hand which she had before only permitted him to take, she said, in tones of thrilling tenderness, and with eyes full of tears, "Forgive me, dear Everard, suffering makes me peevish; but I did not know that you were sad: tell me what has made you so." She paused, but observing some embarrassment in his countenance, immediately resumed, with a vain effort at playfulness. "Has Evelyn frowned upon you this morning?"

Everard pressed her hand affectionately, and continued to hold it between both his as he said, with an embarrassed laugh, "No; I am almost ashamed to acknowledge, even to you, that it is Evelyn's smiles which disturb me this morning."

"Does she smile upon another, then ?”

"No; but to speak plainly, she is so happy, so joyous at this visit to the city, that—I fear I know not what."

"I find that love as well as guilt makes cowards of us. Why, Everard, she is doubtless pleased for your sake; she is going to the place in which you live."

ure.

"No, no, Mary; she has been frank enough to acknowledge that this is not all, and I am clear-sighted enough to perceive that it is but a small part of her promised pleasShe will soon be surrounded with admirers, and as her father persists in forbidding any engagement between us for a year, (as if a year could make Evelyn so much wiser or better able to judge for herself,) my visits and attentions to her will be on the same footing with those of others, and I may be compelled to see her whom I have thought my own, wooed and- -this is too tyrannous in Mr. Beresford-I have been too submissive to his will-I will yet win from Evelyn a promise to become mine when this year of probation is at an end."

As Everard uttered these last words, he relinquished the hand of his companion, and starting from his seat, walked hurriedly across the room, as if to give vent to his impatience by motion. He returned, however, as rapidly, and then Mary said, "I doubt not, Everard, that Evelyn would make the promise you require; but you will not ask it, I

am sure."

"And why not?"

"First, because you promised Mr. Beresford that you would not."

"It was a promise he should never have exacted. What great change can take place in Evelyn in one year?”

"If in that year Evelyn remain unchanged, Everard, any promise would be needless; if she should change, you would not desire to hold by a promise, the heart no longer yours."

This was a statement too true to be disputed; but there are some moods of the mind in which truth is the most irritating of all things. Such was now the mood of Everard Irving, and with an impatience which belonged to his impetuous nature, but which he had rarely manifested to the gentle being at his side, he replied, "All very reasonable, and very proper too, I doubt not. I am sorry that I am not just now sufficiently cool and calm to appreciate it. You, who never knew the fears and doubts of love, can scarcely be expected to sympathize with my folly."

An expression of the keenest anguish passed over the face of the girl, and pressing her hand to her side as if she had felt the pang there, she closed her eyes, and laid her head back upon the pillows of her couch. Everard had not looked at her while speaking, but her change of position attracted his attention; and as he saw the suffering depicted in her face, he leaned tenderly over her, and said, “Forgive me, Mary, for disturbing you with my waywardness. I am like a fretful child this morning; but we will speak of this no more."

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Nay, Everard, not so; to whom should you speak, if not to me? If I have not known love," she added, with a bitter smile, “I have at least learned to sympathize with sorrow." He replied only by a pressure of her hand, and they were both silent for a few minutes. She was the first to speak

again.

Do you know any thing," she asked, "of this Mrs. Ma bury, between whom and Evelyn such a sudden intimacy seems to have arisen ?"