So our days went by. I was gradually losing my constraint, and found in my daily intimacy with her a charm that aroused new and undreamed of powers. I no longer blushed when she spoke to me, I no longer avoided her glance, but would sit gazing into her eyes with such earnestness and devotion, that I wonder my secret was not revealed to her. I loved to hear her speak, and God only knows what gorgeous dreams of future happiness entranced me as I listened, spell-bound, hour after hour, to her words. But chiefly, I loved to hear her sing. I would stand by the piano in those sweet summer evenings, while the stars went up one by one into their places, and listen with hushed pulse and tearful eyes as she uttered those sounds, that seem even now in the stillness of night echoing from heaven, to float from angel-lips down, down through the illimitable ether into my ear. Oh! seasons of voice

less delight, do you never return? Is there no melody left for me on earth, that can revive you? Are the voices of sweet singers and the chiming of liquid and lulling strains, forever to fall coldly on my ear after that epoch of song?

I remember now, how as she would sing some strain of passion, her voice would grow lower and fainter, and her hands pause listlessly on the keys of the instrument, and how I, looking into her eyes, could see the tears. Then came over me a strange feeling of happiness, for I thought and I thank God for the bliss I felt in thinking so that the song might have awakened in her bosom some answer to the silent love that was coiled, snake-like, round my heart.

But your hands, dear Mary hold to-night an angel's lyre, and your voice floats through the arches of heaven.

Oh! glorious visions, why did I ever awake. Why did I not die then, die in the half-formed and timid hope, that on her heart's tree, one bud of tenderness and love was blossoming for me. I am thankful now that at those moments I resisted the mighty impulse that would have made me fall at her feet and utter my broken tale of burning passion; I am thankful that she never heard the words that thronged in those moments to my lips.

Sometimes John would come softly in while she was singing, and stand silently behind her. But when she was aware of his presence, she would rise and glide from the room; and then I would feel angry that he should step within the charmed circle of my happiness, and cause the beautiful spirit whose presence was blessing me to vanish.

But for all that I was at times inclined to look upon my cousin cooly, both on this account, and because I thought he was distasteful to Mary, and so should be disliked by me, I loved him more and more every day. His manly heart, his unfeigned friendship, the countless exhibitions of his affection for me, the pleasing remembrances of boyhood, all conspired to link me to him with bonds that the grave has not broken and death has not decayed. And if it be given to departed spirits to revisit earth, to be at the side and read the heart of those they loved in life, you know to-night, dear John, that your memory is green and sacred in my soul.

A month had passed, a month that was to me one waking trance of fierce delight. I doubt if ever there had been a moment of it that had

been divided from her possession, sleeping or awake, in his presence or out of her sight, the seething billows of passion still beat on the seabeach of my life, with unchanging sound, with unaltered crests. I began to indulge myself in long and solitary walks, wherin I hugged and gloated over my new-found treasure; wherein I built up great arches for the bridge of the Future; and the key-stone of them all was Mary Linley.

The nightI never shall, I never can forget that night—the twilight had just blended into the moonrise, and I had strolled across the fields and entered an old pine-forest that was of no great extent, and of which the trees were not so numerous as to impede one's progress. Indeed, it was pierced throughout with many paths, the work of Art as well as Nature, in which one might walk with great comfort. The delicious damp odor of the evergreens; the perpetual sighing of the tasselled-pines, the bars of moonlight that lay across my path, heightened the ravished feeling that my thoughts had induced into a sense of delirious enjoyment and rapture.

I sat down on a fallen pine, and looked up through the tree tops into the sky. I never felt so near it as I did then. I resolved that on the morrow I would confide to Mary all the stormy thoughts that were beating fiercely at my lips for expression; I would tell her all I had suffered, all I hoped, and I fancied that I could feel her soft arm round me, and her warm lip quivering on mine, and could hear her half-hushed, but still most intensely audible answer: 'Yours, dear Hugh, in life and death.'

I was seated out of the beaten path, from which I was separated by a thick growth of young fir-trees. The path itself was bathed in light, while the shadow of the trees fell deeply upon me; I heard footsteps coming along the walk and resolved to sit in silence till they had passed. They stopped however directly in front of me. I caught the gleam of a female's dress through the fir openings, I was about to start forward when I heard the voice of a man in earnest conversation with her.

I solemnly declare that I had not heard a single syllable, I had not even seen the face of either, before an awful and nameless dread crept over me. What it portended I knew not, but I felt a great agony sinking, and growing intenser as it sank, into the depths of my palpitating heart. I leaned forward with strained eyes and in sickening suspense. It was my cousin and Mary. They stood sidelong to me, and the moonlight was full upon their faces. Her hands were clasped in his, and her face was upturned to his own with an expression of angelic sweetness and trusting love. He was speaking. Was each word a coal of fire, hot from the furnace, that it so scorched and burned into my soul? Was the air that I breathed an atmosphere like that of the damned?

'Mary, dear, you know my heart now; you trust in my love, do n't you?'

A smile of tenderness was the only reply.

'Darling, I have dreamed of this for years! of this very moment, when I should look into your eyes and see there the wealth of your heart's true love, glittering for me alone; of this very moment, when my passion and your reply should be sealed thus.'

He stooped to kiss the lips that shrank not from him.

Mary, I have never known before the secret of life. My feet have wandered to many a spot, my heart has beat in many a measure, but the spot where our feet stand now is to me, to both of us, the soil of Eden, and the throbbings of our hearts are laden with the fulness of a delight that must be lent us from Heaven. Here let me rest. Beyond the haven of your love let the bark of my passion never go; there let it furl its sails and anchor forever. Thither the storm and strife of life's under billows shall never reach; thither the sound of its tempests shall come but faintly and hushed. I am henceforth to own but one memory, one hope; the memory of to-night; the hope that GOD will give you to me on earth and in the grave!'

And she answered: John, dear John! it was long ago I loved you; but I feared that you never would care for me, and I hoped and prayed that you might never know my love for you if your own heart was cold. I am sure I prayed so, and I prayed too that you might love me dearly; that you might

She said no more, for he had clasped her in his arms, and they were locked in the long, lingering, passionate embrace of love.

In the open field, with my face on the cold damp ground; in the shadow of the pine forest, clutching the grass in my agony. How I came there I never knew. There I lay, with a thousand thoughts rolling like fiery billows over my heart. and a thousand hideous shapes grinning and howling at me. In that fearful phantasmagoria of torment I could not arrest a single thought or a single shape. They rolled and whirled by in endless succession, but I felt, I knew that they were all alike. I sprang to my feet, as if to shake off with a vigorous effort these dreadful persecutors; and as I looked out in the field beyond the black, evenly-defined shadow of the pine forest, I saw them in the shapes of John and Mary walking slowly along in the moonlight. The air about them appeared of a golden hue, and their steps seemed to be on beaten silver; but I was standing in the blackness and gloom of the forest shadow, with a yet more rayless blackness and gloom upon my heart.

How long I stood there I cannot think. I have thought since, that in that fearful season all my powers of reason, reflection and memory must have been swallowed up in the fearful vortex of passion that was hissing and boiling in my heart. When its waves grew calmer, and the fiery veil was drawn from my eyes, I walked hurriedly to the house. I paused in the flower-garden before it. The blinds of the parlor windows were closed, but the casement was up, and I heard her singing. I felt that John was beside her, leaning over her shoulder, his black curls mingling with her damp, soft brown hair. I could not see this, but a thousand daggers of conviction at my heart made me feel it. Presently the song ceased, and the low, earnest tones of impassioned words come on the still night air. I should have gone frantic to have waited there one instant longer. I opened the front door softly and stole to my chamber, entered it, and locked the door.

I sat upon the side of my bed. For some time I did not think at all; the only things that filled my mind were pictures of what I had

seen and echoes of what I had heard. At last the silence and calm of my room restored me, and I endeavored to give my wild and shapeless thoughts some form; and first of all appeared, with stony, fearful, changeless, Sphynx-like gaze, the embodied conviction 'She does not love you! She will never love you!' Then arose (forgive me, John; I cannot forgive myself!) a bitter, desperate, and demoniac hatred of my cousin. May such cursed impulses and black resolves as flapped their ominous wings above my tortured spirit in that hour, never, never visit me again! I shudder when I think of them. But in the midst of the strife of my anguish, I lifted my eyes to the wall of my room, and there, hanging in the moonlight, I saw the picture of John, painted years ago, when we played together. It seemed to look upon me with a look wherein the ancient love-light was blended with a mournful chiding. It aroused the recollections of our spring time of life; it pleaded with the hearty friendship of our later days; it recalled his last God bless you, Hugh! Good night!'

I buried my face in the pillow and wept. Those tears were the gift of GOD; there flowed away with them all rancor, all malice, all loathsome revenge, and nothing, nothing was left behind but a great and deep sorrow; that they could not wash away. Are there not traces to-night where the lava and fire has been?

I arose with a calmer and a lighter heart. I thanked God that the affection of my heart for John had passed unmelted through the fiery furnace. I was thankful in being able to reflect that neither of them suspected the secret of my heart, and that their love might never be imbittered by the thought of the hopelessness of mine.

What a long and terrible night that was! What years of pain were crowded into its weary watches! They say that intense fear or a night of great bodily anguish will sometimes turn the blackest hair to the silver hue of age. I know that in those fearful hours my heart grew very old.

My purpose was fixed; my plans were formed. I must leave the place the next day, and never, never see her again. I packed my trunk, and as I finished my preparations for departure the morning was flushed and glorious. I softly stole down stairs, and sent a servant over to the post-town to direct the stage to come for me. I picked a little bunch of roses from a bush I had seen her tend, and wandered listlessly around the house in the apathy of despair.

A sudden step in the gravel-walk and a ringing 'Good morning, Hugh!' It was John. I grasped his hand with an iron grasp, as if thereby to wring out all remembrances of the evil thoughts of the night before.

Why, Hugh, where were you last night? Mary and I hunted every where for you. But my father said he heard you in your room, and going up I found you locked in. Were you sick?'

Yes,' I answered, I was taken suddenly and violently ill, and laid down.'

'Poor fellow! you look dreadfully haggard and pale. But I have something to tell you which I think will restore you to something like your wonted spirits.'

I did not look him in the face; I dared not. He continued:

Perhaps you have suspected all along that I loved dear Mary. Last night I knew for the first time that she loved me. I have seen my father this very morning, and he tells me that I could not have chosen any one that could have been more pleasing to him.'

I could not speak. I feared lest I could not control my words.

We shall live here at the old homestead, Hugh, and you must stay with us as much as you can. Mary loves you almost enough for me to be jealous of her.'

Another struggle to crush down the rising devil in my heart. Taking me by the arm, he continued: 'Come into the house, dear Hugh, and wish us both joy.'

My brain swam as I entered the breakfast-parlor, where my uncle and Mary were seated. Both looked cheerful, joyous and happy. I felt as a damned spirit might in gazing through the gates of Paradise. I do not know what I said in relation to John and Mary's engagement; I only know that as we rose from the table I announced my intention of departure. I met all urging and solicitation to stay longer with the brief reply that my vacation was nearly over, and that I could not remain longer. My trunks were brought to the door, and I sat in the room with John and Mary, awaiting the stage. It came rumbling along the road. It stopped at the gate. I wrung the hands of my uncle and John, and was about to leave Mary with hardly a word of farewell, when she laid her hand on my arm and said:

'Dear Hugh, are you going to leave me so?'

There were tears in her eyes as they looked up at me. I stooped and pressed my lips to hers, and with the fire and madness of that touch burning in my veins, I uttered a trembling 'GOD bless you!' and in a minute was whirling down the road.

I saw the group as the stage turned a corner of the lane. John was standing with his arm around Mary's waist and her head upon his shoulder. My uncle was behind them. They were waving their hands toward me in token of a last good-by. It was too much to bear. I sank back in the stage and wept as if my heart would break.

The wound of that first anguish was yet green, though many a month had gone by. I had left college, and was about to leave the country. I had heard occasionally from John, and sometimes from Mary. Their letters were like barbed arrows to my soul. They spoke of their mutual, trusting love, of their plans, of their sunny hopes. They were to be married in the autumn, and after a pleasure-journey, return to the old mansion, there to stay for life. I had determined to remain till after their marriage, and then go, I hardly knew whither; but the fountain of Lethe flowed, I hoped, somewhere beyond the sea.

A LETTER from my uncle. I read and re-read it, for I hardly thought it real. It spoke of a sudden, an unexplained, a mysterious quarrel between his son and Mary. John had suddenly departed for India, and Mary was lying at the brink of the grave. Weeks went on, and the crisis in her illness had passed and she was recovering.

Every thing still remained unexplained. Mary never spoke of the