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 thoughtWell, 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!

66

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, 1 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

a long, long time before I discovered that, under a frank, careless manner, he concealed a selfish spirit, that could descend to many and various meannesses to accomplish his own purposes. There was much generous selfsacrifice in his disposition, but more selfishness and meanness. Sometimes in the struggle generosity came off conqueror-sometimes selfishness; but as he grew older selfishness became dominant, though he had skill and tact enough to conceal it mostly from all acquaintances but those most intimate and longest known. Still I generally loved him, for my love for him was not always a selfish love, depending upon the position he stood in as regarded me; but he often threw my heart back upon itself to find itself solitary and alone when most I needed his love. We had our school-boy quarrels, as suddenly made up and forgotten as brought about, and outwardly we were near friends, though every year of our acquaintance taught me more and more suspicion. We studied law at the same school, and he came to this city to practice a year after I did. Though he commenced his professional career under quite different auspices from mine, his were all favorable-mine neither favorable or unfavorable. He became a partner of a well-known lawyer, who had an extensive, well-established practice; I was the partner of a young man like myself-of only passable talents, and with but a decent prospect of practice. Livingston had confidence in his own powers-was flattered, put at ease; and in the freshness of his course worked and thought hard. He made brilliant defences, displayed great acumen, and was very much courted and admired; while I, for the first two or three years of my lawyer's life, was passed by with a pleasant, courteous 'Good morning, sir.' Gradually-very gradually our intimacy lessened, and very gradually his time for conversation with me lessened. He began to pass me by: he could bend to those nearer to the goal of ambition, and he could crouch and fawn while I could not, so that he gained ground and I was stationary. At times we met, as of old, with gaiety and abandon.' He loved wit and merriment so much, that he could forget his selfish plans in the enjoyment of the hour. At such times I rarely adverted to our lessened and lessening intimacy-and then in a gay manner, for it is suicidal to acknowledge neglect.

"One day I found myself glorious, for I had handled skilfully a difficult cause, had gained it, and with it admiration and applause. Happy and proud was I the evening of that day, and Edward was one of the warmest of my congratulators; he had been triumphant the day before in an important case, where we did not clash, as we had sometimes. So we were both proud and good-natured. We made a call in the evening together; and then ordered a room and supper at Gardner's. Over our wine we became frank; he begged my pardon for any coldness that might be laid to his charge, and owned that he had begun to think me a hum-drum sort of a fellow after all, not worth having for a close friend; and I confessed my suspicions, that he had seemed to patronise me while, possibly, it was only his advanced fortune which made me envious and suspicious. We asked forgiveness, and drank lethe to our past estrangement and bad thoughts, and then finished the evening in odd plans for the future. Many a merry laugh we had that night. We spoke of marriage at some future day; and he, with jesting formality, asked my consent to the marriage of his son and my daughter. The idea seemed so pleasantly-ridiculous, that I as politely and formally accepted it, and in the nonsense of the hour wrote an agreement; some merry companions coming in at the time, caught the spirit of the time, and duly witnessed, signed and sealed it. This for some days caused laughter and intimacy; but old habits came over Edward, and again he did not seek his old friend. I had been successful in a forlorn

hope, and clients flocked to me; but defeat after defeat almost crushed me, while Edward was steadily rising. For two years after the time of our agreement, because of our engrossing duties, we did not meet, excepting in crowded rooms; the fact was, I had to struggle with envy, and to bear, too, his hauteur at times, and then his excessive manifestations of regard for me, which were patronising in the extreme. Many a time did I inwardly chafe at slights, which no one knew better than Edward how to humble one with, with seeming innocence and frank thoughtlessness; and then my ill success did not conduce to more favorable, amiable or happy feelings between us.

"About this time he married a beautiful girl, Clara Wendall, of NewYork; and some eight or ten months from his marriage I brought my bride to the city. Your mother was an orphan heiress, educated by some distant relation in one of our inland aristocratic villages. The appearance of these two beautiful women caused much excitement, and destiny had seemed to order all things to separate the boy friends. Your mother and Mrs. Livingston served as contrasts one to the other. Mrs. Livingston was petite, graceful, exquisite; her wit was free and sparkling, but she could seem childish and pettish as well as winning. Your mother was noted for quiet, unpretending dignity; she had been splendidly educated, and soon drew around her a coterie of the choicest minds for her friends. Mrs. Livingston could not boast of such an one; she at first enchanted, dazzled, then wearied. In society they were the guiding stars-nearly all would admire Mrs. Livingston's waltzing, her laugh and nonsense, and would wonder at her brilliant execution on the piano; but always by your mother were those whom people most delight to honor; and when she took her place at the harp and sang, then all were hushed-for, with a rich voice and perfect culture, taste and expression, she seemed to move the souls of those who listened. One could not but admire Mrs. Livingston, but your mother was respected and worshipped. Mrs. Livingston was a heartless, talented woman of fashion; your mother an earnest, loving, living heart. Comparisons were continually being drawn by those who knew them; and, irresistibly, Edward and myself felt that they were opposite leaders. Sometimes I wished your mother was a person of more changing impulse; and I have seen Edward's eye flash and his lip quiver, as he heard some wild, daring or silly speech of his wife's, or try to divert attention from some pettishness she knew so well how to evince.

"After a few years Edward Livingston was born, and great were the rejoicings consequent upon that event. There was no such cause for gladness in our house till your birth some years after; but I had been gradually, ceaselessly gaining clients and fame, while Edward remained stationary, or, from carelessness or indolence lost both clients and fame. Our interests clashed frequently, and we were enemies on political questions. At last he overreached me, deceived me, hoping by so doing to disgrace me. He succeeded; but that act planted hate in my breast. In the weakness of my anger, I overreached and deceived him, hoping to humble him; but did not succeed. That act did not plant hate in his heart, for it had been there years after my success, but it strengthened it to madness. There were no proofs to show his deception; he was too cunning for that. I had not been so wary, and there were proofs to tell against me. We quarreled-we spoke bitterly-we openly hated.

"One evening I had been playing with you, a dear little pet of some three years old, and went from my happy home to plead a momentous cause. Alas! Edward was my opponent, and tasked all his powers to defeat me. I triumphed; and he showed before the court his mortification and anger,