one that comes within the circle of her influence, she is despotic as the autocrat of Russia. You will meet her at the ball to-night, given in honour of our illustrious class, where she and your beautiful sister will represent the brilliant night and fair aurora of the South."

"You do not seem to have bowed to her arbitrary sway yet?"

"No, indeed; I am too fond of dominion myself. I have told you of my belle ideal, and it does not resemble her. Do not, however, imagine that I think her destitute of fine qualities, because I speak frankly of her faults. She is generous, warm-hearted, and, I should think, capable of great sacrifices for those she loves."

The serious tone in which the last words were uttered, and the look of deep interest he cast towards the young brunette, who was sitting in an attitude of careless, inimitable grace, convinced Marcus that he felt for her a far greater admiration than he was willing to avow. The conversation ceased, for the youthful candidates for fame were already on the floor in all the artificial glow of a forensic disputation. At length all had performed their allotted parts but he who wore the crowning honour of the day. Marcus was not bashful, but he was modest. He had too much self-reliance to have a dread of failure, but the audible murmur of admiration that followed his graceful salutation brought the rushing blood to his cheek and bent his glances momentarily downward. The flowing black silk robes of the students invested their persons with dignity and grace while they were speaking, which their usual dress could not impart. Marcus, who was now nineteen, had the full height and proportions of man

hood; and notwithstanding the fairness of his complexion, and the almost girlish profusion of his sunbright hair, there was an air of manliness and resolution, an expression of great mental power, combined with the warmth of latent passion breathing in his face, that redeemed it at once from the charge of effeminacy. He had that greatest of all charms in an orator-perhaps it might be said in any man or woman-a full, clear, sweet, and mellow voice, more deep than loud, and whose lowest tones could be distinctly heard in the remotest corner of the hall. Marcus felt that the approving, glistening eyes of his beloved benefactress and his revered benefactor were resting upon him; that his sister was gazing upon him with love and pride; that the venerable president and learned professors were bending upon him looks of beaming approbation. He felt all this, for his mind was clear from embarrassment, and he took in the scene of which he was now the centre, in all its length, and breadth, and bearings. But there was something he felt even more. There was one face that, like a burning glass, seemed to draw all the rays of thought, all the emanations of feeling; and the figure to which that face belonged might have sat as a model to the statuary who wished to personify attention. Yes, the spell was upon her. With her head slightly raised, her ringlets swept back from her brow, and the crimson bloom of excitement on her cheek, she followed every word of the youthful and inspiring orator— from his graceful exordium to the close of his splendid effort in the midst of the most enthusiastic and reiterated bursts of applause. Marcus withdrew from the forum ; but just as he was making his last bow, a hand, unseen in

the dense crowd, threw a chaplet of evergreen at his feet. Bending down he raised this classic token of victorious honour, and twining it round his arm instead of wreathing his brow with it, he disappeared from the gaze of the audience. So signal a triumph had rarely been won in the walls of the university; and after the diplomas were all distributed, and the students dismissed, his classmates gathered round him, and, with the generous enthusiasm of youth, warmly congratulated him on his well-earned fame. Delaval, giving his hand a hearty squeeze, declared he was แ a glorious fellow" and "an honour to the South." “And take my advice, Warland,” added he confidentially, "glorify yourself a little; and if a certain young witch should put on any airs to-night, deport yourself right royally-let her feel that you know your own value."

"He certainly feels a deep interest in that quarter,” thought Marcus, but he said nothing. The sun was then on the horizon, and he required rest before the hilarity of the evening commenced. The day had been sultry and oppressive even in the open air, much more so in the crowded walls he had just quitted. But, as usual in southern latitudes, a soft, cool breeze came stealing over the dewy grass, reviving the languid spirit, and preparing it for new enjoyment.

Marcus was emphatically the lion of the night; and whatever higher distinctions he attained in after life, he certainly looked back to this evening as the most brilliant epoch of his youth. He was not vain or elated. He had arrived at no eminence he had not fully expected to attain, for he had a full, rejoicing consciousness of his own

powers, and he knew, if he kept them free from pollu tion, and healthy and vigorous from exercise, they were capable of any exertion he would be called upon to make. From earliest childhood, when asked if he could do any thing, the ready, unhesitating answer was, "I will." And the earnest purpose, the brave resolve, the firm yet modest confidence, were expressed in every feature of his face. It was this invincible self-reliance, this soul-felt strength, that gave energy to his character, and diffused around him an atmosphere of light and joy. Marcus had known but one hour of despair, and that was the morning after his father's perjury, when he bowed his young head over the Long Moss Spring, and mingled his bitter tears with its waters. And then, when that father came, and sitting down by him in penitence and humiliation, told him of his heaven-appointed mission, the magic words "I can―I will," rang like an ancient war-cry of victory in his ears, and led him on to a triumphant future. The girl of the fountain had cast a bewildering influence over him, and for a little while he doubted his own power over elements so strange and apparently inharmonious as hers; but now, since he had seen her mind magnetized by his eloquence-when he repeated to himself the interrogation she herself had made, "Canst thou seize the lightning's chain, and imprison it in thy grasp?" he could answer with the same conquering, unconquerable resolution, "I can- -I will." L'éclair sat at the upper end of the hall, in the full blaze of the chandelier, and she well represented the "night of starry climes and cloudless skies." The style of her dress was more juvenile than that she had worn during the day, though more showy than