foundest pleasure-the conviction that a moment of my society was more valued by Annie than an hour of his.

The wealthy young lover affected not to understand this, although it was plain to the commonest apprehension, I thought. In spite of everything, he did not seem to understand that his visits were unwelcome, and persisted in frequently coming in the evenings, in spite of his cool reception. On these occasions he bowed with an easy air; saluted me, when I was present, with friendly familiarity, and sat down, play. ing with his hat and smiling. It was impossible for Annie to treat any one discourteously, and though she had taken a dislike, almost, to Mr. Lackland, she did not betray this impression, but met all his advances with the most perfect and maidenly courtesy, but nothing more. I have never seen a more perfect exhibition of what is called the "high-bred air," than that of the girl on these occasions, and Lackland seemed to think as I did, that any man might be proud of such a wife.

The visits of the young man were continued as regularly after our engagement as before, and he had for some time been sending Annie very handsome presents, anonymously, and in such a way that they could not be returned, but just with that transparent veil thrown over them, which the eye easily pierced.

One evening a servant handed to the maid at the door a small box, and then disappeared without waiting for an answer, or leaving any gentleman's name. The box was succinctly addressed to "Miss Annie Claston," and contained a pair of magnificent bracelets.

When I came, Annie showed me the jewels. and I at once recognized them, having seen Lackland purchase them that morning at White's. The young lady asked me to advise her what to do, as she was convinced that Mr. Lackland had sent them. I did not mention my meeting with him, and felt unpleasantly about it. I begged her not to give herself any annoyance, that I would return them, frankly informing Mr. Lackland of her disinclination; and on the next morning I did so.

I met my gentleman coming out of the Club, whither I had gone to seek him, and handing him the box, said that Miss Claston had commissioned me to

"Bracelets!" he returned, with an air of surprise.

66

Yes, sir, bracelets which you sent to Miss Claston last evening."

"I" he repeated in the same tone, "really, you are going too fast, sir."

"I think, Mr. Lackland, I move at a pace exactly in accordance with my calling, which is that of a mercantile clerk. I am now on my way to the counting-house, and my time is valuable. I beg to repeat, that Miss Claston has commissioned me to thank you for these jewels, but begs that you will pardon her for returning them."

The irresolute and uneasy expression came to his face, and mingled itself with the irritation.

"Really, sir!" he said, "I am subjected to actual persecution. You wish to force me to receive back what I never sent."

"Mr. Lackland!" I said, profoundly astonished at this falsehood.

64

Sir!" he said, stiffly.

"You will pardon me," I said satirically, "but I saw you purchase these very jewels yesterday morning at White's. Doubtless the circumstance has escaped your recollection."

His face turned crimson as I spoke, and an angry flash shot from his eyes.

"Well, sir!" he said angrily, "you seem to make it your business to keep watch over my movements! Suppose I did send that box, and suppose I did wish to conceal my agency in sending it-what concern is it of yours, sir?"

"I choose to make it my concern, sir," I replied coldly, “and if you address another observation to me in that tone, you shall answer it elsewhere."

I never knew before that he was a coward. His cheek blanched, his eyes lowered themselves before my angry glance, and he did not reply.

"Mr. Lackland," I said, "I regret that this conversation should have taken a turn so unpleasant. I have not the least desire to quarrel with you, sir, and wish simply to discharge the commission which I have undertaken, as a

friend of Miss Claston. She begs to thank you for this gift, but cannot receive it, and I now return it."

With these words I placed the box in Lackland's hand, and bowed, and left him. From that moment, as I knew afterwards, he hated me with all the bitterness and malice of a small and cunning nature. You will see how his hatred developed itself.

IV.

PARTING.

Annie and myself had entered into our engagement with that thoughtless precipitancy of youth, which older and wiser heads visit with so much reprobation. My salary was entirely insufficient for the comfortable support of two persons united in the holy bonds of matrimony, and, after long and sad discussions upon the subject, it was the conclusion of the little household that we must wait for happier times.

Long engagements are a great evil; and they should, I think, be avoided if possible in all cases. To see the phantom of married happiness constantly fly before you-eluding your grasp, and laughing pitilessly at your despair -this is sufficiently saddening. But But there is the further consideration of the young lady's position. The knowledge of her engagement on the part of her associates is more or less embarrassing -and I have known many gentlemen who declared it impossible to enjoy the society of such a lady-"talking to you at random, and looking over your shoulder, at her intended." It is true Annie did not give a thought to this, and she declared her willingness to wait just as long as she lived: but altogether it was disheartening.

Just when we had arrived finally at the conclusion that we must wait, and that I must look around for some improvement in my situation, I was one morning accosted by an old merchant who had professed a great friendship for me, and informed that he had a proposal to make me. He soon unfolded his idea it was, that I should go to Rio de Janeiro for a year or two, and act as his mercantile correspondent; and he supported his proposition by offering me just thrice the salary which I then received. He would give me a week to think of it, he said, and then we parted.

I need not tell you that this propo

sition was the subject of the most anxious consideration to me, throughout the week: for the idea of leaving Annie nearly unmanned me, and paralyzed my resolution. The dear girl saw the struggle in my breast, and understood perfectly that she was the obstacle in the way. She besought me not to refuse that, great as her distress would be to part with me, it would distress her still more to reflect that she embarrassed my movements, and clogged my advances toward prosperity; and she added that I need not be uneasy about them at home, for they were now very comfortable. Mrs. Claston urged the very same views.

It was not until Annie and myself were alone, that leaning her lovely head upon my shoulder, she cried, and said, she would remain "mine in life and death." I recollected these words afterwards.

Well, not to lengthen out my story, at the end of the week, I accepted the offer of my friend Mr. Aiken; and having made every arrangement with the house where I had been employed, I sailed in a month.

I went on shipboard one night; and thus remained with Annie and her mother all the evening. I recall that evening now perfectly; and especially the crimson sunset flooding the trees of the square yonder, from whose summits crowns of gold seemed gradually lifted by the fingers of the night. Mrs. Claston was a little indisposed, and I took leave of her in her chamber-receiving with tears almost that blessing which she gave me, laying her thin white hand on my head, as I kneeled beside her. The storms of many years have beaten upon my brow, and changed to gray my raven hair, or swept it away, but still the touch of that pale thin hand of the pure lady is on my brow, and I kneel before her once more, on that night of parting.

Annie and myself lingered long in the little parlor, I need not say; and the golden crowns all disappeared from the fringed summits of the elms before we parted. It was not "in one blind cry of passion and of pain"--but it went near to unman me. Those caresses and endearments which are the language of lovers, and have therefore been derided by the cold and stupid world which does not know that God has given them to His creatures to express the depth of

pure and holy love-thoes faltering words, and tearful pressures of the hand, which say so much, were a thousand times ended and renewed; and then the end came.

Annie wrung her hands, and like a fearful child followed me to the door. It was nearly dark, and I must go. I turned to take leave of her again-but throwing a handkerchief over her head, which made her countenance resemble a Madonna's weeping, she drew me toward the corner, some steps distant only as you see, there to bid me farewell.

I had there first met with her-there she had seen me, too, for the first time. As our eyes now met in a long, long look, the whole past rose up again, and condensed itself into a moment-a moment crammed with love and happiness, the recollection of which threw a glory almost over the canopy of night.

And there at the old corner we parted, -a long embrace; smiles breaking through tears in the eyes of a man and a woman-that was the spectacle which the friendly stars beheld.

Annie went back, crying, and I continued my way to the wharf and embarked. When I opened my eyes the sun was rising over the Atlantic. But I saw nothing but the figure of the maiden -I felt nothing but the sweet agony, the bitter pleasure of that parting.

It is well that I looked back instead of forward: but let me proceed in sequence.

V.

THE RETURN

I was reading, the other day, a book which has been much spoken of in Eu rope the story of a poor, lost girl, from the dark gulf of whose nature, full of woeful depravity, and misery eating into her heart like a cankerworm, a flower of innocent love springs up, and purifies her, smoothing her dying pillow. I thought at first that the work was a fiction but it was too strange.

Only the thoughtless and unobservant will consider what I have said a paradox. We do not get at fact anywhere, hecause it wraps itself in the triple folds of self-esteem, reserve, and fear-and thus, seeing only the outside of life, some persons think that it is new, prosaic, and commonplace, and that all the tragedies are attributable solely to the

vivid imagination of dramatists and ro

mancers.

I know family histories, which I would not dare to relate in their naked, simple details, though the scene were laid in another land, and the names changed --for the majority of my listeners would declare me crazy. I know histories of individuals which I could verify step by step, incident by incident, from yellow and moth-eaten letters and paperswhich histories the world would no more believe, than they would the existence of devils in a man of this century. They would rather say that I forged the papers, than credit what would make their hair stand on end. But I am wandering from my story, which is not quite so terrible as some others, my dear friend, though, at the time, it seemed to me that woeful tragedy and despair had touched its climax.

I remained in Rio de Janeiro for three years; and at the end of that time set sail homeward, with the satisfactory feeling that I possessed what was amply sufficient to enable Annie and myself to commence housekeeping. My delight, as I approached the friendly shores of my native land, was even increased by the fact that I had not received one line from home for more than a year; and while the explanation of this lay simply in the fact that the ocean mails were very irregular, I had often felt a sort of foreboding, such as most persons experience when they love deeply. At such times we fear that such an immensity of happiness, as we dream of, cannot be unmixed, even if it exist: the heart doubts, however powerfully the mind reasons against these doubts; and we wait, in trembling suspense, the sight of the familiar shores, the old mansion, the beloved face.

Thus, while I experienced the most exquisite delight, as I saw the wellknown rows of buildings, and discerned many familiar forms upon the wharf, I waited with anxious expectation for the moment when I should recognize a building more familiar still, a face more dear to me than all the world.

Ten minutes after entering the hotel, and after throwing merely a passing glance at my brown face and long, black mustache in the mirror, I was at the door of the little wooden house yonder. Everything was just as I had left itthe honeysuckle blossomed on the porch, as it did on that evening in June

when I parted with Amie-a pigeon or two circled in the golden atmosphere, or lit upon the roof-even the curtain at the window of the little parlor. from behind which Annie watched with tender eyes, as I left her every evening, was still there-the trees, lastly, of the beautiful square rustled in the warm breath of the summer evening, and on their imperial summits the same crowns of gold were slowly lifted by the dusky fingers of the twilight. Every object, every ray, every shadow, every odorthere was nothing that did not speak eloquently of Annie; and leaning for an instant against one of the white pillars, I placed a hand upon my heart to still its throbbing. I look back now on the figure of myself, standing there on the very threshold of my fate, and almost feel again what I felt soon after.

A strange servant came to the door. Was Mrs. Claston, or Miss Annie at home?-Sir? Was Mrs. Claston at home? I repeated; if so, tell her that a friend had come to see her. The reply was that Mrs. Claston did not live there, but she would see. The maid went and told her master, who came at once and invited me in. I entered the little parlor, and, for a moment, thought the beating of my heart would alarm the host. He did not seem to observe my agitation, however—he was a fat, goodhumored old gentleman, not given to imaginative exertions-but in a polite and smiling fashion invited me to be seated.

I sat down; and again my eyes made the circuit of the apartment, whose mantel-piece, cornice, wainscoting, and curtain, brought vividly back the old days with Annie. With Annie!-yes, with Annie! I was losing time-and I turned to my host.

The information which he conveyed to me, was briefly as follows: Mrs. Claston had been dead for a year, and he had understood that her daughter had gone to live with an aunt at the other end of the city, whose name he had heard, but did not remember. Was Mrs. Claston a friend of mine? He was extremely sorry to have uttered what seemed to distress me so much.

And, seeing me almost unmanned by the distressing intelligence he communicated, the kind old gentleman bustled out and returned with some wine, which he forced upon me. I touched the glass only to my lips, and, thanking him,

rose to go. He suddenly called me back as my foot touched the threshold, and said that he now remembered the name of the lady with whom Mrs. Claston's daughter went to live-Mrs. Peters. I thanked him again and took my departure, leaving, with slow steps and a heavy heart, that house in which I had been so happy. I had thus lost one most dear to me: that blessing, as I knelt by her, was to be an eternal one, never to be renewed: beyond the stars of the bright evening, the white face shone with the glories of heaven. The kind, pure lady was gone; but she had left me a priceless consolation in Annie. As I thought of the girl, my heart throbbed and my cheek glowed-from death I returned to life.

I went to a shop and asked for a directory; I had known the man, but he did not recognize me, with my hair crisped by the tropical sun, my cheeks burned of a deep brown, and my lips covered with a long, black mustache. I easily found the address of Mrs. Peters, and thanking the man, who said I was very welcome, and I thought gazed curiously at my foreign dress, I walked rapidly away.

I preferred walking, as the exertion was some relief to my overburdened feelings-feelings oscillating like a pendulum, uneasily, between gloom and delight, between hope and fear.

VI.

A WOMAN

I had gone two or three squares, and was crossing the street, when a carriage, drawn by two splendid horses, with a driver and footman in livery, passed rapidly before me-and as the brilliant equipage flashed on, enveloping my person in a cloud of dust, I distinctly perceived, framed as it were in the velvet-edged opening, the face of Annie.

I stood gazing after the carriage, which disappeared around a corner, with an expression upon my countenance, I am sure, of perfect stupefaction. Then I had found the person I was hastening to meet and clasp to my bosom with a hundred kisses-I had found the Annie of old days, of the humble dwelling, of the timid and modest existence, returning, as it were, beneath the shadow of the old elms which threw their wide arms above the humble roof-this Annie of my heart and my

dreams, I had found in the splendidly dressed woman, glittering with jewels and satin and lace. and darting onward like a meteor in the downy velvet of a splendid chariot, which scattered dust upon me as I stood, within two paces, unrecognized.

I was not seen, it is true: but had I been seen, would I have been recognized? I was simply a sunburnt stranger-a pedestrian, who looked at a fine carriage as it passed. Had the world turned from east to west, or was I insane or dreaming?

Then the face of Annie, as she passed, rose before me again; I thought she looked pale beneath the load of flowers above her brow-she looked sad in the midst of this splendor. What did it mean?

There was an easy solution. I should doubtless know all from Mrs. Peters, whose carriage she probably used. I had heard of this lady, the sister of Annie's father, long a widow-and, as well as I could remember, not much had been uttered in her praise. Well, we would see. And I set forward rapidly again toward the house.

I found it at last. It was a very handsome residence, the front door approached by marble steps, with an ornamental iron railing. I ascended and knocked.

A servant appeared, and I bade him carry my card to his mistress, and say that I desired to see her.

I was shown into a magnificent parlor, in which everything was overpoweringly splendid, and arranged with the primmest elegance; and in ten minutes a rustling of silk upon the stairway preluded the entrance of Mrs. Peters.

She entered, and inclined her head stiffly. She was a woman of about fifty, with hard, cold features, an icy gray eye, and the heavy double chin indicated a tendency towards good living.

You wished to see me, sir?" she said, coldly, subsiding into a seat, and holding the tip of my card, as if she would be glad to toss it, as one does a worthless piece of pasteboard, into the fire-place. Pray, to what am I indebted for the honor of your call?"

I saw in an instant that this woman had distinctly made up her mind to oppose and overcome me, and I had plainly nothing to expect from her but coldness, perhaps insult.

And barbed with the deadliest hauteur, her insult struck me full in front; but I only grew colder, in spite of the beating of my heart.

"Of mine, madam," I said, calmly. "It may possibly astonish you, that I, a poor stranger-though not, I perceive, a complete stranger even to yourselfthat I should speak of Miss Claston as I do. But what I have said is simply the truth, and it is quite impossible for me all at once to adopt an air of ceremony in speaking of one-I may as well say so dear to me. You cannot be ignorant of the relations existing between myself and your niece-you must understand

"I understand nothing, sir!" she said, contracting her brows with sudden and haughty anger," and I desire that you will not further confide to me your private affairs!"

I rose from my seat and bowed, a movement which the lady imitated, in a manner which indicated dismissal.

"I am sorry to have offended Mrs. Peters," I said, with a flushed cheek, "but I have at least the satisfaction, in leaving her, to know that I have not uttered a single word which could be construed into an impropriety. I have simply said that Miss Claston occupies a position toward myself which it is impossible for you to be ignorant of."

And I have replied, sir." said the lady, flushing like myself with indignant fire, I have replied, sir, that I understand nothing."

"Is it possible that Annie has not told you?" I said, coldly.

Will you be good enough to terminate this interview, sir?"

And trembling with anger and disdain, the lady deliberately tossed my card into the fire-place.

"I shall certainly do so at once, madam," I said, with the most ceremonious bow. "I am not naturally fond of insults, which you seem to take pleasure in inflicting upon an unoffending gentleman."

My coldness, and the shadow of disdain in my voice, must have profoundly euraged her; for, advancing a step,