her; and it was an unavailing effort. The spirit of impatience had seemingly expended itself in the arrangement of her exquisite dress, for now she sat gazing into the fire, looking very wearied, watching the forms the coals were pleased to shadow forth, and telling over one by one her sorrowful thoughts, as a hermitess does her beads. The fire blazed cheerfully; the candles threw up a bright light to make the diamonds flash that made up Mary's dress, and showed the japonica so beautifully white, centred in its rich dark leaves, hiding away among her curls; the light glanced, too, upon the rich decorations and furniture of the room, with its harp and piano, its rare paintings and flowers, its rich luxurious couch and toilet stand; but while the light revealed all these, its cheerfulness could not remove the wearied expression upon Mary's face. The wealth around served but the more strongly to contrast the poverty of her heart-the utter desolation of a heart, which feels that sorrow like unto which there is no sorrow so sad-the condemnation one passes upon one's own conduct-the consciousness that will not be put away or forgotten of having, while seeing the right, dared to do the wrong.

Poor Mary, while thinking upon the events of her life, how long it seemed! and yet it could count only eighteen summers. The events of her life can be told in a few words, though to her who read the minute details of those events, as well as the consequences of them, it seemed made up of ages. Her mother died when she was twelve years old. The four years after her mother's death were spent at a fashionable boarding school in some quiet village on the Hudson, where Mary's doom was hard study, continual study-every hour, from early sunrise till night, being devoted to some lesson or accomplishment; every act was prescribed and bound down by rules; but she had bent gracefully to the burdens imposed, and having talent, had richly profited by them. But the last two years of her life were in direct contrast of those four years. In them there were no hours of tedious practising, no drilling, no compulsion, but she was as free as the air-and her former drilling and study had prepared her to enjoy her freedom to the utmost, for her mind was stored with useful and elegant knowledge, and her freedom did not make her listless and uninterested; but she had resources and constant enjoyment with her books, music and drawing. Those years of freedom were spent at her uncle's house in the garrison at C. Major Abbotson was what the world calls a whole souled man, and his wife a woman of kind feeling, taste, tact and hospitality, so that their house was the resort of much company. Major Abbotson loved Mary for her own sake, and proud he was of the only child of his only sister; and then he loved her for her great loveliness, so that in the time she passed with him no time or expense was spared to amuse and make her happy. The garrison being near a large and gay city, and the officers and their ladies fond of society, there was for Mary a constant succession of amusements-riding, boating, parties and concerts. All these were new to Mary; and if enjoyed by those who have tasted deeply the pleasures of the world, and found the bitterness mingled in the cup, how much must a young, impulsive, happy hearted girl like Mary have enjoyed them, accompanied, as they were for her, with the adulation attendant upon a young, beautiful and bewitching heiress.

In the last of the two years came for Mary a greater happiness than parties of pleasure, or all the occupations a gay life can give. She learned to love, truly, heartily, and was loved by Edward Livingston with the strength of his heart and soul. Edward Livingston was a young lieutenant in her uncle's regiment, a highly gifted, finely educated man; there was earnestness in his words and heart that interested all who saw him; there was visible in all his expressions and movements, the refinement of a graceful

mind and a kind heart, and his thoughts were embodied in eloquence. Major Abbotson was delighted with the prospect of having Mary in his regiment, but when Livingston wrote to Mr. Brighton his wish to become his son, Mr. Brighton harshly, sternly refused consent to the marriage or engagement, declaring that he should never become his son-in-law. Before the lovers had recovered from the first astonishment and sorrow, a letter came from Mr. Brighton, ordering Mary to go home directly. The mandate was painful enough to her, coming as it did from a father she knew so little of; but the suffering it occasioned was aggravated by the harsh, sneering, domineering tone of the letter. Mr. Brighton, in the six years of their separation, had scarcely troubled himself to make it convenient for her to go home till then-had scarcely visited her, for his visits were but hasty calls of some half hour's length, and he rarely wrote to her; and this father, who appeared to take so little interest in her, but enough to furnish her with money, was sternly, and without sufficient reason, the lovers thought, refusing his consent to the proposed marriage; and the harshness and exacting tone of the letter exasperated Edward Livingston, overcame his better nature, and in his anger he urged Mary to consent to a private marriage, so that no abitrary will of any father might separate them long. Mary, in the excitement of anger, assented to the proposal; and a few hours before she heard the last kind words of parting from her relations, she was secretly married and bound by a vow they thought nought but death could dissolve. At the time I commenced the sketch she had been home two months, and in that time she had corresponded freely with Livingston, as her father never inquired what letters she wrote or received, and the footman was her messenger to the post office.

I have told Mary's life as I promised that I could, in a few words; but in those events were wrapped up much for memory to rejoice and blush for, much to pain and delight Mary. Poor child, all the phases of her life passed before her with great distinctness on the evening of the fete I spoke of, and bowing her face upon her hands, she mourned in bitterness indeed of spirit. "And this is home," she thought; "if mother had not left us, how different this home would be. She was the guardian angel of home, and made its wealth and means minister to every one's happiness. She was father's good angel, soothing and subduing his hasty and stern temper, wakening his careless, indifferent and worldly soul. There were tears often on her face when she was with us, and now she is happy. I should not repine because God sent for her to a brighter home, and yet if mother had lived, I might have been saved from my sin and the dread consequences of it. I have sinned very much; but mother, if you can hear me, do not desert me, and let me learn of you patience, humility and courage-let me be willing to do all that I can to soften father's stern, unaffectionate nature. I feel tonight, mother, as if there were no resting place for me but in your love-it seems to me as if that cannot change, and earth seems barren and drear of comfort for me. Now I realise that it is utterly impossible that I can hold the same place in Edward's esteem that I once did-it will be hard for him to love a disobedient girl. I can no longer appear to him as the holy, strong, courageous being he once loved-how can he respect one he found so weak? He must, after the excitement of the marriage is over, think of me as a disobedient girl, whom he has taken as his wife, to whom he will be very kind; but ah, me ! that is not the love or kindness that I long for! Now I remember that he was not as happy as I could wish him to have been, when the few words were spoken that gave me to him; as for myself, when those words had been said, the old world and life seemed to have passed away, and in their place a life of care and trial to be in store for me. Instead of

being happy, I was perfectly disheartened and penitent. Edward was so also, I think, though he said many kind words; but he said much to conceal his real feelings-he was excited, he acted. Ah me! poor children, how wrongly we have acted. Then I cannot rest any longer in the proud consciousness of being right, but I must take to myself all the faults of those who sin. I am suspicious, and quarrel with Edward's expressions of love. If he writes earnest, loving words, I think that if probed they would not be found sincere; and if his words of love are few, and he writes with his deep, brilliant thought upon other subjects than love for me, then I think that his heart is full of repentance, and that he tries to interest himself away from his own thoughts of sorrow. Yes, I am wretched indeed! and how different would my lot have been if mother had lived-how much better if I had never seen Edward. But could I give up the bright memory of the past? Ah no! let me keep it now, if it will only serve as a contrast to the gloomy present.

"If mother had lived, perhaps father's hard nature would not have become so very stern. I wish she was here to comfort him now, for some secret seems to torture him. He treats me strangely; he will have me dressed and obeyed as if I were a queen; and though he does not spare wealth or his demands upon others to make me happy and to render me respect, I could almost think, sometimes, that he hates me, he is so sneering. At times he shuns me-seems to dislike my presence, and again he will not deign to notice me by word, look or sign; then again he looks at me so kindly and speaks so pleasantly, that I long to throw my arms around his neck and beg him always to love me. But how can I, the guilty one, do so? Sometimes he tries to talk with me, and making but an unsuccessful effort, he will sink into a deep reverie; and then, at other times, no one can be more witty and lively in conversation with me. Night after night he paces his room, so that I cannot sleep, because of that ceaseless, heavy tread; and when I have gone into the library, and have found him walking the room, great drops of perspiration gather and roll from his forehead, so intense-so agitating seem to be his thoughts; and once or twice he has come up stairs to my chamber door-stopped there a moment, as if hesitating what he should do, and then has gone down again. He may be becoining insane! His sneering-his coldness and sternness make my heart ache. But it is most dreadful for me to see him when his heart is softened by influences that I cannot perceive, and melted by thoughts of which I have no conception. At such times his very gentleness and thoughtfulness break . my heart, for the remembrance of my disobedience takes away my power of talking with him as a good daughter should. Ah! no one would sin if, when tempted, they realized the sadness that is the sure consequence of sin. The thought of my sin weighs me to the earth; it checks all noble impulses. I surprise myself in moods of pettishness and irritability which used to visit me rarely. I am very, very weary-oh, so tired, mother! I wish that I had courage to bear the sure consequences of disobedience. I wish that I had more patience with myself in my degraded state-that I could strive now, more than ever, to be gentle, kind and loving; but I am cowardly in so dreading and fearing, and in becoming angry, that I am made to suffer the humiliating consequences of sin. I have lost all patience with myself and my follies, and have lived as if I had renounced all hopes of progress. A few months ago I was good, and ambitious to increase the energy and beauty of my character; but those days seem to have bade good-bye to me. I find myself peevish, sarcastic, and yield very readily to the little sins that tempt us all daily and hourly. Mother! all comfort is not gone; for the idea that you may hear me is such a comfort! If you can, mother, strengthen me and guide me, and give me strength enough to confess all to father. I shudder at the thought of disappointing his worldly dreams-of maddening

his worldly heart. He wishes me to make some brilliant match, I see plainly, and it will craze him to find I have married a poor army lieutenant. Ah me! if but this life of mine would die quite away, how gladly would I die !"

Mary felt the longing that we all have felt-that longing to escape sorrow and sin. If we would express our feelings better and more truthfully, we should ask not to die from the glorious world, with its material and spiritual sunshine and flowers, but we should ask, "Good Father, give us greater strength-more courage, that we may not be tempted to do wrong; and if sorrow must needs be sent to us, let us perceive their use, and be willing to learn the lessons given us, assured that in time we shall gain much benefit from them-even now, our willingness and submission giving to us happiness. May we bear the sure consequence of our wrong-doing with patience and not hopefulness; every day may our spirits reach up to and gain another step nearer heaven, our home."

Though we say we wish to die from the world, yet, soon after the wish is expressed, invariably something of the world we said we were willing to die from comes to our notice, and heart and mind immediately is interested, at least at first somewhat so, which proves our expressed wish false. So it was with Mary; she said she wished to die; she thought she did before she entered Mrs. Murray's drawing-rooms. There life assumed a new aspect. She was gradually drawn from thoughts of her own peculiar trials; she was flattered by attention, and a carelessness of her destiny crept into her heart; and she who, in the earliest part of the evening, was the saddest of the sad, became, to all appearances, the gayest of the gay. Her recklessness bore well the contrast of the cold air and departure from the bright rooms, for she received, with apparent unconcern, the unexpected message from her father, which the coachman gave her on the steps of her house. "Miss Mary," he said, "Mr. Brighton is in the library, and he told me to say to you he had determined to leave for New-York to-morrow, and that he would like to have you go with him. He told me to tell you that he wishes you to meet him in the library as soon as you get home, as he has something to say to you."

Immediately it flashed on Mary that the denouement had come-that the dreaded hour of recrimination and confession was at hand; that he suspected or knew all; but her recklessness had not departed, for she thought"Well, let it come; I'll bear it well-I must bear it. What is the use of shrinking?—I'll not flinch." Alas! there was but little contrition in Mary's heart as she entered the library. Her mind was in a lamentable state of confusion and indifference.

SKETCH SECOND.

There was a spirit of the most perfect recklessness in Mary's heart when she opened the door of the library; but one glance at her father exorcised the fiend. She had expected and was prepared to meet a stern, enraged father-one who would spare no taunt, no hateful word; one who would not have an approach of a feeling of pity for her, or see one palliating circumstance in her disobedience; one whose anger might be fearful even to the daring to kill her. She expected and was ready to return taunt for taunt, bitter word for bitter word; ready to defy him; but one glance at her father sent that spirit utterly away; and pale, utterly subdued, she leaned against a table near the sofa to which he motioned her-watching, waiting,

fearing, and longing for him to speak, until, from fearing to hear his voice, she felt that he must speak. Ah, how the erring children of God sometimes wish for the hills to cover them!

There was no trace of anger upon Mr. Brighton's face. Large, passionless tears fell from eyes whose expression was of sadness, so deep and unutterable, that it made the heart ache and break to imagine the weight of suffering he endured. His form was bent, and his step slow and feeble, as he paced the room. At last he seemed to be nerving himself for some hard duty; and going to Mary, he sat himself beside her, put his arm around her, drew her to him, parted the curls from off her forehead, gazed into her eyes, until, overcome by the intensity of his emotion, he laid his head upon her shoulder, and wept and sobbed like a child. The storm passed away; and when he could speak, he told her that he had a long and passing strange story to tell her-the history of his life it was, and that it would require all her bravery to hear it. He spoke hurriedly; and when he had uttered a few words, would pause to send back the tears and gain voice. Mary," said he, "you must have thought me crazy since you have been here, but when you have heard the dreadful truths I must tell this night, you will wonder that I have acted as sanely as I have. But before I begin you must take some wine to give you strength, and I will take some too," he added, pointing to a huge pile of ledgers and papers on the table, "for I have much work to do before day. Now be strong, I pray you, Mary, and do not unnerve me utterly by weeping;-you see I have scarce bravery enough to tell you all I must this very night. First, I will tell you my most startling fact: I know of your marriage and all the circumstances. Had you known my history, Mary, you would not have so wondered at my harsh words; but I was maddened almost at that time, and wrote what I have sorely repented. Had I been gentle, then you would have obeyed me; but this disobedience may cause you life-long suffering and me life-long bitterness. You can never, during my life, be Edward's wife. Nay, nay, child-don't cling so to me, love-be brave, dear! I wish-oh how I long to let you marry him! How I could love him! I would give worlds might it be so. But, Mary, give me your hand, dear-it cannot be. Why, you will hear when I tell my history. To fully understand our present position-our future hopes -you must hear that history in detail. It is a terrible story, and you will have to be brave to bear it. We must all, Mary dear, suffer the consequences of sin-the seen and the unforeseen;-you, poor child, as well as your wretched father, who bears his own sin and sorrow and his daughter's too; for I have learned to know and love you as well as be proud of you. Ah, wretched me! how can I send away all your dear dreams that I would so gladly make reality!" And Mr. Brighton, with nervousness—almost unheeding what he was doing-rose, and drinking glass after glass of wine, continued speaking, with more firmness.

"I was left an orphan at an early age, with but little more than enough money to support me during my studies and the first year or two of my professional career. My guardians cared but enough for me to see I was well clothed and duly sent to school and college; and once, when there was a catalogue of my misdemeanors sent them, because of some college frolic, one of them wrote me a letter of reprimand and advice. The first school friend and chum I had was Edward Livingston, Henry's father. We were inseparable, and were as one in many a mad-cap adventure; were in the same classes-same lessons, and visited the same people. He was a handsome fellow-of fine presence, and had an indescribable winning way,-so that he had more admirers than I had. I was of an ardent, passionate temperament, and loved him devotedly. I worshipped him, indeed; and it was