cluded them to be, occupied so much of my thoughts, that I could pay but very little attention to the rest. I awaited impatiently the return of the mail which should bring the answer from Amelia. At length it came. To Henry Middleton. I instinctively caught it up. I felt as if I were an interested person, and had a right to see-that is, without breaking the seal-as much of the letter as I could; but Amelia had folded it so carefully, that it defied all attempts to gather any connected sentence. Gracious heavens ! What do I see? By turning up a portion of the inner fold with the blade of my knife, I read—

Yours affectionately,

AMELIA SINCLAIR.

It was now certain that Amelia was lost to Henry. She had proved faithless by marrying another. How would he bear up against the thunderbolt aimed direct at his heart? I again endeavored to penetrate further into this letter; another fold was carefully raised; the words "a parent's curse," "cruel necessity," "your absence," "forced into marriage," burst upon my sight. I had actually worked myself into a fever, and had partly determined to keep the letter from Middleton, feeling assured that its contents would prove a death blow to his hopes. While debating the subject with myself, he appeared at the window. I held the letter in my hand. A tremor of almost conscious guilt passed over me, and if he had watched my countenance he could not have failed to detect something indicative of my crime. I handed him the letter-he gazed upon the well known hand, a smile of joy irradiated his visage; he tore it open, hastily devouring its contents--a sudden and awful change came over his face--the exclamation of "oh God!" escaped him--he raised his right arm, pressing the distended fingers against his forehead, and fell upon the floor in horrid convulsions!

He lay upon the bed of death; his eyes partly closed, and his hands clasped together in convulsive agony. I stood beside him awaiting the result of the paroxysm—some moments relapsed their unnatural collision-he gazed languidly around the room, exclaiming, "Where am I! Who did this?" "One," I replied, "who is willing to serve you." "Oh, then, as you are my friend, burn that fatal letter. While it exists I am wretched. It is the curse of the few short moments I have yet to live. I have read it until each word, nay, each letter seemed as a coal of fire consuming my very heart strings. It is chained to my brain, and each thought I bestow upon it acts as an electric shock to heighten my misery. I essayed to destroy it--but dared not-cannot !"

I took the letter and deliberately burned it; he watched its disappearance with a maddening glare, and when it was entirely turned to ashes he burst into an hysterical laugh, and fell back upon the bed.

It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader that, after the scene at the post office, I caused him to be conveyed to my room, and he had continued in a state of delirium during the whole of that time. On recovering from the hysterical affection caused by the excitement of destroying the letter, he became more calm. "I thank you," he muttered, "I remember it all-and you have been my true friend-heaven will bless you for it-my prayers, they are all I have to offer, shall be breathed for thee and thine."

66

"Compose yourself," I answered, "think of nothing now but your recovery, and return to friends."

"Friends!-ha, ha, ha! Who talks of friends? Ah, yes, you that are a real one, and never felt the venomed tooth of a smiling hypocrite in your flesh-no-I will

Think only! he was my of my youth, the friend of

speak-bear with me awhile. chum at college, the companion my more matured age, and we lived in the hope of ending our days beneath the same roof. But now the broad canopy of heaven cannot shelter both of us alive. One or the other should-must die, and fate accords it to me."

"You distress yourself. Do not speak of these things."

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I speak of them, my dear sir, to drive away the curse of recollection. Left alone to dwell upon them, I would go mad. I will relate to you something of my short, but eventful history. It is simple; there is no romance in it! it is one of those incidents which occur in every life, among men of the world. I was not suited for the world-it has crushed me-Amelia has wounded the heart that loved her. But no more of that. We were cousins destined at an early age by our parents for each other. We grew up in the perfect knowledge of the happiness which awaited us— we were young, we were lovers. There is not a stream, there is not a mountain of our native home, but could tell a tale of our early loves. We have wandered over the one and sat beside the other, when the moon shed her pale and silvery light upon its waters. There nature smiled upon us, and we in return rejoiced that she was so good. Pardon my folly, sir, but those were moments of pure, unalloyed bliss. There came one among us, who, in my dreams and my waking hours of madness, I have cursed. It was Sinclair-my friend-I will not enter further into the details of my history. I will not relate to you the causes which induced me to quit home; suffice it however to say that I was unfortunate. I wrote to Amelia. The fatal answer and the result of it, you are already acquainted with, and it is to your kindness that I am indebted for those few days added to a life of insupportable wretchedness; my nervous

system susceptible of the slightest shock, my mind weakened by the hereditary disease of our family, consumption, could not battle against the accumulation of domestic misfortunes, and a jealous feeling which I harboured of Amelia. I left home-my misery is now complete-my former suspicions have proved true! She is faithless! This, sir, is all-bear with me but a short time, and then I will tell you the rest-I feel myself sinking-listen-oh! God-oh, God-I—I—" he gasped for breath-the muscles of his face worked as if struggling to retain life-his eyes became fixed-his lips muttered sounds, they were unmeaning-I took his hand, it was cold and stiff-I gazed upon his face-Death's seal was set forever!

*

*

*

*

In the Episcopal church-yard, near C street, is to be seen a neat marble slab, with the following inscription:

Sacred

TO THE

MEMORY

OF

HENRY MIDDLETON,

AGED TWENTY-FOUR YEARS.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.

CHAPTER II.

THE WIDOWED MOTHER.

"Though grief may blight, or sin deface
Our youth's fair promise, or disgrace
May brand with infamy and shame.

A mother, though her heart may break,
From that fond heart will never tear

The child whose last retreat is there."

ELLEN FITZARTHUR.

It was a cold, dreary morning in the month of December, a heavy snow lay upon the ground, and the wind whistled around the north-east corner of the post office; the streets were nearly deserted; none ventured out but those whose business rendered it absolutely necessary. I sat at the window, watching the flakes of snow as they pealed from the roofs of the opposite houses, and scatttered their whitened particles on the pavement beneath.

The southern mail had arrived, and all the business letters were delivered; a drowsy feeling crept over me, and I was just falling into the Lethean lake of forgetfulness-that dreamy portion of our life, without which this paradise, this glorious world, with its riches, and its charms, would be as a howling desert

"Sleep, sweet restorer, balmy sleep."

But I am digressing. I was awakened from my slumber by a slight touch upon the elbow and a tremulous voice uttering the words, sir! sir!"—" madam!" cried I, starting up— "I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wish to know if there are any letters from my son?" Honest creature:-she