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.

I

Annie wrung her hands, and like a fearful child followed me to the door. It was nearly dark, and I must go. 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 Europe-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, because 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 papers— which 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 Annie-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.

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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 enraged her; for, advancing a step,

with flashing eyes, the folds of her great chin swelling, and her lips quivering, she said:

"I do not regard you as a gentleman -I know you perfectly well, sir, and I see in you only the individual who attempted to take advantage of the unsuspecting innocence of my niece, in order to inherit my property! I do mean to insult you, sir! If Annie had married you, she might have starved and died in a gutter, before I would have given her a mouthful! You need not put on that air of a great lord, sir!” cried the furious woman; "that is what she would have come to, had you been successful in persuading her to follow your beggarly fortunes! You practiced dishonorably upon her feelings, and inveigled her into your toils, and it was a year before I could do away the effect of your arts. But I succeeded, sir; I got the better of you. She confessed that you had tricked and deceived her-said that she would never again think of you, sir! And I now inform you, for your satisfaction, that my nicce has been for six months the wife of Mr. Lackland."

Had a thunderbolt fallen upon my bare brow, it could scarcely have produced a more terrible effect upon me than did these words. I staggered, and raised my hand to my eyes, before which a cloud, of the color of blood, seemed to pass, from whose folds horrible faces peered at me, and pointed to me with long, bony fingers, and diabolical laughter. I gasped for breath; my bosom seemed weighed down with a huge load, and gigantic fingers seemed to compress my choking throat, and inject my temples with burning floods.

In the midst of this terrible phantasmagoria-when I was still oscillating upon my feet-I saw indistinctly the face of the woman who had struck me to the heart; and her countenance wore an expression of hateful triumph, for she profoundly detested me, and enjoyed my agony.

But she was nothing to me now at all. I did not look at her again. I did not utter another word, but, putting on my hat, went away, feeling cold, though the day was warm.

I remember stopping at the crossing where I had seen the carriage pass, and smiling at my foolish fancy, that this fine lady, with the nodding plumes, had any connection with my Annie-that she resembled her. I would go to the

hotel and change my dusty garments, and before the golden crowns rose from the summits of the trees, would clasp to my heart the pure and faithful girl, and her dear mother, and mine.

I hastened on, and wondered if the passers by suspected my happiness: poor creatures!

Before the hotel some Italians were playing on hand-organs, and a crowd was laughing at the antics of some dancing dogs. I had time to look at them, and sitting down, I commenced thrumming with my fingers, and gazing with smiles and delight at the merry dogs.

Five minutes afterwards, a sort of cloud swept before my eyes, I heard a loud exclamation, and some servants ran to me and lifted me from the pavement, upon which I had fallen senseless.

For three months I was prostrated by brain fever, accompanied by delirium, which brought me to the brink of the grave.

VII.

THE OLD HOUSE.

Once, when I was traveling in Italy, I met, between Naples and Salerno, a woman, who walked wearily along the highway, and, indeed, seemed scarcely able to get out of the track of my horses. She was old and thin, and I offered her a seat in my vehicle, which she accepted, with a sort of wonder.

I asked her where she was going, and she told me her history. Her husband, sister, father, and three children, had died, within ten days of each other, a month before, and she was going to Salerno, to try and get employment.

She related all this without agitation, and scarcely sighing. I asked her how she had been able to forget so soon-for, you know, I am a curious student of human nature. The woman looked at me simply, and said, in her calm voice: "God consoled me. My loss was a blessing."

"I understand," I said; "but these pious impressions might have been made upon your mind, without this immense misfortune."

I shall not soon forget her reply.

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Signor," she said, looking at me calmly, "on the blue days, we play, and sing, and keep the carnival. It is only when the sirocco burns from the south, that we feel who gives us the flowering laurels, and the cool breezes of the sea."

The woman's answer touched the chord of memory, and I felt that we had gone through a similar ordeal.

I rose from my sick bed, entirely changed, and I trust that my life, since that time, though not so useful as it might have been, has not been without benefit to my species. The sirocco had burnt into my very soul, and I bowed my head, and submitted without groaning, after a while-and now wait for the hour when the grass, if not the laurels, will whisper over me.

I converted my small savings into a letter of credit, and went abroadtraveling for five years, through Europe and the East. I saw a great deal of human nature, I think; for I mixed with peasants and nobles-the high and the low, the rich and the poor-coming, for all my pains, to the final and most rational conclusion, that humanity is much the same in every land-that Giovanni laughs or groans under much the same influences as John-that a knot of ribbon and a festival pleases Lisette in Paris, as it does Molly in the country here that it's all the same old story.

I was beginning to count the florins in my purse now, when, one day, a packet, with a red seal, was brought me, by a servant of my friend the consul's, and I had the pleasure of being informed, by Israel Jones, attorney-at-law, etc., etc., of my native county, that I was sole legatee of my respectable uncle, deceased, who had always quarreled with me, and that the estate was estimated to be worth from seventy-five to one hundred thousand dollars. I was glad to hear it, and, as I had seen enough of Europe, I thought I would return home, or to what had once been a sort of home to me-to the spot where I had been, for a brief season, wholly, completely, supremely happy. The song says truly, that 'tis home where the heart is;" and I was just as strongly drawn toward the old place, and figure, as when I sat in the counting-house at Rio de Janeiro, and sent my heart across the seas, to Annie, praying for me in another land.

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Do you know why I loved her? Wo are considering, let us say, a mere series of events, and, therefore, we may philosophize. My unabated love, then, for this woman, in whom I had implicitly trusted, and who had broken my heart, sprung from the fact, that, as a living person, she was completely dead to me.

As far as I was concerned, she did not exist-she was mouldered to dust, beneath a piece of emerald sward-out of her breast grew flowers. It was the Annie of my youth--for when I returned I was already growing old-the Annie of former years that I loved. Since the momentary glance which I had caught, on that evening as she passed onward in her carriage, I had never laid my eyes on her; and I did not wish to see her. All was broken between us-she was nothing to me, I nothing to her; we went different ways-I and Mrs. Lackland.

My Annie was not Mrs. Lackland. She was the ever splendid and gracious vision of my youthful dreams and hopes -the pure, faithful maiden, with the kind, frank eyes, holding no trace of guile. My Annie never could have yielded to the threats of a base and degraded woman, and broken an honest heart, which was wrapped up in herruined a man, who cared nothing for life without her love. Mrs. Lackland lived in a splendid house-my Annie in the humble cottage beneath the elms. Mrs. Lackland rode in an elegant carriage, and wore satins, and jewels, and birds of paradise-my Annie walked, and was clad in a little blue dress, and chip hat. Mrs. Lackland was a false woman, pining in magnificent misery— the Annie of my memory and my heart was an angel, with an angel's purity and happiness in her azure eyes. But I will not continue this dissection of my heart-I will proceed with my story, which draws to an end.

The five years of my second absence had worked greater changes even than the three years formerly-or as great. Every familiar face seemed to have disappeared from the scene-even the faces of those who had wounded me most cruelly; and I walked alone, not even encountering enemies-only strangers.

Lackland the elder had completely failed in business, two years before, and I soon heard had wholly impoverished Mrs. Peters, who sank under the blow, and died, soon afterwards, of apoplexy.

Young Lackland had become the slave of intemperance-had treated his wife with notorious cruelty, and, finally, the father and son, with the wife of the latter had disappeared, no one knew where. Thus every face was gone-I had not even a successful rival to welcome me. I went to the little house, and found a