mvde her entrée into fashionable life, and was admired and courted, as I had expected.

During the first year of my absence from home, I bad formed the acquaintance of Philip Howe. He was several years older than myself, being at that time nearly thirty, while I was scarcely twenty, years old. Philip Howe was universally called, by the lales, a very handsome and entertaining man, by gentlemen a very clever and agreeable one, and a very talented and fascinating one by all; and they were all right. The chief secret, however, of my first attachment to him lay in the fact that I already knew his sister in America; and, although my cousin Alice was a very dear cousin, I meant, on my return, that Helen Howe should be something still dearer. So Philip and myself became inseparable. We traveled together through England, France, Italy, and Switzerland; and with the increased knowledge which every day brought me of his noble eharacter, did my love increase for him also. He possessed the most brilliant conversational powers I ever knew. His information was extensive, and his eloquence persuasive. I scarcely ever heard a subjeet discussed of which he did not seem to possess a thorough knowledge. One subject alone did he avoid that of religion.

I had often spoken of Alice to Philip; but I remembered and described her only as a beautiful, but wayward child, and had never dreamed that such a one could ever influence a mind like his. I had read to him portions of her letters. At first, they were mere sprightly, girlish effusions, always entertaining, rarely thoughtful, and never studied; afterwards they assumed a deeper, more earnest tone, and seemed to speak a character more formed and more perfect. At all times they were refined, and displayed occasionally bursts of enthusiasm that would even startle one by their intensity. Philip seemed much interested in her letters.

"Your cousin," said he, "has a great deal of character. One may see that from her letters. They tell of a thoughtful mind, but a happy heart, and one that has never known sorrow."

"And God grant she never may!" said I. "She is ill fitted to bear with sorrow. I think a deep sorrow would kill Alice."

Not so," answered Philip. "I see much of resolution in her letters; and I should judge that she had much of fortitude in her character."

At length, after an absence of four years, Howe and myself turned our route homeward.

"You must introduce me to your cousin Alice when we arrive at America," said Philip to me, the evening after our departure from England. We stood upon the deck watching the sunset. We had been speaking of Helen and my hopes.

Willingly," was my reply to his remark. "And, by the way, I received a letter from her yesterday. I will read you a portion of it; for, in truth, I am somewhat surprised, not at what has occurred, but

that she has said nothing about it before, when she has written so often."

And I procured the letter and read-Alice had united with the church.

"Do you wonder at this?" she wrote. "I trust not. I have been, I am still, high-hearted and happy; far happier than I had ever dreamed of before. It has come to me, this beautiful faith, like sunlight from the heaven above; and, while it has given to this life a joy unspeakable and more lasting, it has taught me that, when I have passed away from earth, He, the Holy One, has prepared a rest, a rest of happiness, where all who have loved Him here must be blessed forever, because His dwelling-place is there. Why should this love for the Creator render me gloomy and ascetie? Does it not rather render more perfect, because more holy, every earthly joy, and take the sting from every earthly woe? Does it not teach us to treasure more carefully, and esteem more highly, all those qualities in others which excite our love, because these they have received from our Father,' and it is the possession of these which renders them more like Him?"

"This Christian religion," said Philip, as if to himself, when I had paused, "is beautiful, if we could only believe it; infinitely more so than any other which has ever been formed."

"And do you not believe it, Philip?" said I. He seemed annoyed, and hastily endeavored to change the conversation.

"Answer me, Philip," I insisted. "I wish to talk of this now."

He was silent a moment; then, approaching nearer to me, he replied—

"My mother died before my recollection. My father owned a large plantation in Georgia, where we resided. He was a man of talent and energy; but he possessed a grasping ambition and an indomitable pride; and-I speak thus to you alone, Tom-he had little regard for the means of which he made use, or what were the consequences to others, if only he accomplished his purposes. I was the oldest son. I had one brother, Edmond, who died when I was about eighteen. My father, for some reasons which I cannot explain to you, had always disliked me. He was a man of violent passions; and, after the death of my mother, his hatred of me increased to such an extent that he could not endure my presence. He selected a college at the north, where I should pursue my education, and I did not return to my home until after his death.

"And this man, my father, was a member of the church; and, as I often saw him leave his home with curses on his hip, and enter the church, and, with great apparent emotion, read the service and repeat the creed,' I could scarcely fail to acquire a disgust at the church which would admit such a member, and a disbelief of the religion which he professed.

"This has increased with my observation. I

have, indeed, seen some more consistent believers than he, and some enthusiasts, who really seemed to believe the truth of the doctrine; but rarely have I seen one whose religion was of the heart, the understanding, and the conduct."

"But," said I, "should we conclude, because some of the professors of this faith are false, that the faith itself is so?"

Perhaps not, Tom," replied he-"perhaps not. Let us speak no more of this. I meant never to have done so. It was not wise for me to risk the diminishing of our friendship on account of a mere difference of opinion; and still less would I wish that any word of mine should have a tendency to weaken your faith, if you really believe this doctrine. And now, Tom, let us never speak of this again." And, so saying, he turned and walked away.

Our voyage was prosperous; and, at length, the fair shores of America dawned upon our view, and soon after we had landed in the busy city of New York. As soon as possible after my arrival, I hastened to seek my uncle and cousin, and Howe to see his sister.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening when I rang for admittance at Mrs. B.'s beautiful mansion, and was ushered into her parlors. Judge Ermyn, I was informed, was out of town, but Miss Ermyn would be with me soon; and, almost before the message was delivered, she entered.

I had left Alice a child; I found her now a woman, and a very beautiful one; yet still the same warm-hearted Alice, as I discovered from her affectionate greeting. Her manners were still as winning as of old; but she had acquired a self-possession which rendered them still more graceful in the woman, though differing much from the waywardness, the quick succession of smile, and frown, and tear, which had rendered her so charming as a child. She still retained all her former frankness and artlessness, while, at the same time, firm principles seemed to have acquired the control of her impulsive temper.

The clear color still reveled in her cheek, and the smile still hovered round her red lip, disclosing as often as of old the pearls they hid; but, in the glance of her dark eye, might be seen traces of thoughts and feelings once unknown. Her usual exquisite taste was displayed in her dress; but I perceived, from its richness, that she was probably engaged somewhere for the evening. I asked her where, and received permission to accompany her.

"We were intending to go to Mrs. Arlington's for a short time, and then we were engaged to Mrs. Ward. By the way, it is there that Miss Howe resides. I believe you are acquainted with her, ain't you, coz? Mr. Ward is her guardian."

"Indeed!" said I, with an increased desire to accompany her. "I would like much to see Miss Howe"

"I don't doubt it," interrupted Alice.

"But I don't care to go to Mrs. Arlington's." "Oh," said Alice, "I will persuade my aunt to go there alone, and we will call for her in an hour."

She did so; and, after Mrs. B― had "sailed" into the room, "congratulated me upon my safe arrival, hoped was very well, and that she should see me often at her house," she left us with the injunetion not to delay for more than an hour.

We talked earnestly and frankly until the clock told the hour of ten; then Alice, starting, declared we must go.

We called for Mrs. B, and drove to Mr. Ward's. I pass over the joy I felt at meeting Helen, and at the assurance I contrived to elicit that she was still true to me as when I left her.

At length, as I stood talking with her for a moment between the dancing, Philip joined us.

"I have seen a vision of loveliness, Tom," said he, "which I believe is some one to whom you have promised me an introduction. You have been so engrossed by some fair lady-don't blush so, Nelly— as to have quite forgotten it."

"Ah! What is she like?" said I. "Let me see if you are right in your conjecture."

"She has a laughing eye, a blushing cheek, and the most beautiful mouth, chin, and throat in the world. Then, I believe, she wears white gauze, or lace, or gossamer, over rose color. On the whole, I think she would remind one very much of a cherry rose, with a beam of sunlight flashing on its petals."

"Bravo, brother Philip!" said Helen. "You certainly are improved in the charming art of paying compliments to an absent lady, though scarcely in flattering one present."

"I leave that for Tom when we are with you. He does such things with a much better grace than L Besides, Nelly, I have a strange way of never flattering those whom I love, especially when we have been parted so long as you and I have."

"Ah, brother," said she, "call all the world beantiful, if you will; while you remember your sister thus, she is happy." Then, suddenly changing her tone, as she saw my earnest gaze at her face, with a blush and a smile that a woman has at her command in such cases, she exclaimed, "There, take him, and introduce him to this 'sun-bright maiden,' who, I imagine, is my friend, Alice Ermyn. I see Captain Osborn coming to claim me for this dance."

I found my cousin surrounded by a troop of danglers, who, however, soon dispersed as I, rather unceremoniously, claimed for myself and my friend the principal share of her attention.

As we approached, she, to the great mortification of the perfumed gentry around, was good-naturedly conversing with a very shy, awkward boy, whom I had previously endeavored to engage in conversation, and had entirely failed in my effort. Alice, however, with a woman's tact, had "drawn out" his conversational powers, and his proud, happy look was very different from the shy, distressed, "not-at

home" expression he had formerly worn. She gave him into my charge, when she, soon after, accepted Philip's invitation to promenade, with a whispered injunction to "amuse him till she came back, for he seemed very lonesome."

Such acts as this were what, more than levity or wit, rendered Alice a general favorite. Acts of genuine kindness, by which she won not only admiration, but gratitude and friendship. That same boy said to me, years after, when his awkward bashfulness had given way to a graceful self-possession

"I shall not, I think, forget Miss Ermyn's kindness to me at the first party I ever attended. It seemed a little thing to her to speak to me and make me speak; but I was fresh from the country, and the most retired part of it, where I had seen little company, and the lights and these people, I assure you, frightened me terribly till, finally, Miss Ermyn, with her earnest, unaffected, good-natured manner, placed me quite at my ease. Such little acts have gained her the gratitude and friendship of many others besides myself."

After that night, we saw Alice frequently. Helen and Alice were already acquainted; and, for my sake first, afterwards for her own, Alice sought her soeiety much, and soon learned to love her as a dear friend.

Philip remained several weeks in New York, and then returned to his home at the south. During his stay in the city, Judge Ermyn had returned. He, toe, yielded to the skill of Philip's gifted mind and heart. He conceived a warm attachment to him, and earnestly invited him to accompany me to his house in the summer.

"Come home with Tom," said he. "I know that he and Alice, by their united efforts, are trying to persuade your sister to do so. Alice, in her usual wilful way, declares it shall be so; while Tom, I suppose, flatters himself he shall be equally successfal by another mode of proceeding. We can promise you there fishing, and even shooting, sailing and driving, riding and walking, by way of amusement, with the society of such fair ladies"

"By way of instruction," interposed Helen.

Philip laughed, thanked him, professed that it would be extremely difficult to refuse such an invitation, glanced at Alice, who smiled, and finally ended by accepting the invitation.

CHAPTER II.

JULY found Philip Howe on his way to the little village where was Alice's early home, and where we were spending the summer. I had driven to the neighboring railroad station to meet him; and, soon after his arrival there, we alighted at my aunt Anne's hospitable door.

Helen was at the door to meet him, and welcome

him with the warmest affection. He passed his arm round her slender waist, and, kissing lightly her pure white forehead, drew her to the parlor, where Judge Ermyn stood with extended hand to welcome him.

"Yes!" exclaimed I; "this is ever the way: no sort of notice is taken of me when Philip is here." "Don't begin to scold, Tom," said my uncle. "I was talking to Helen," responded I.

Humph!" said he. "If, by any possibility, you could be persuaded to stay away from her as long as Philip has, then you might perhaps be welcomed with more empressement than you now are."

"Should I, Helen ?" whispered I, pathetically. And Helen laughed, as ladies always do when they don't know what to say.

In the mean time, came Aunt Anne and Aunt Amelia, eager to welcome a brother of our Alice's friend.

He acknowledged all their kindness with his usual inimitable grace. And, at the first opportunity, Aunt Anne declared Mr. Howe to be the most agreeable young man she had met for years; so soon does a gentle manner and a pleasant word subdue the heart.

"Where is Miss Ermyn ?" asked Philip, at length, as time passed on, and still she did not appear.

"Indeed, I do not know," replied Aunt Amelia. "She went out about two hours since. I can't imagine why she is so long absent. She knew that you were coming, and that Tom had gone for you; and she said she should return before he did. Did she not tell you where she was going, Miss Howe?" said the good lady, quite alarmed lest any one should imagine Alice meant to treat with rudeness Helen's brother.

"No," replied Helen. "She merely said she was going out for a walk. I was dressing, and she did not ask me to accompany her."

"Doubtless performing some act of charity," quoth Aunt Anne.

Philip looked up at her with a quick glance, as of a person aware that words are often spoken "for effect," and able to detect where such was the case. He found little traces of deceit upon Aunt Anne's open countenance. I saw that Philip was a little piqued at my cousin's continued absence.

Tea was announced, and still she came not. After tea, Helen was engaged for a game of chess with my uncle. Philip and myself went out for a walk.

We strolled through the village to a portion of it where resided some Irish workmen at the neighboring mills. In a dirty hovel, on a pallet of straw, lay a woman dying. Beside her, supporting her head upon her arm, sat Alice. Near her stood a broken earthen bowl, containing some water. With this, Alice occasionally cooled the feverish lips of the woman, or, with her own delicate fingers, smoothed back the disheveled and tangled hair from her haggard face, whispering those low and soothing words

which are music from a woman's lip. Directly a tidy-looking woman passed us, whom I recognized as a sister of one of my aunt's servants. Led by a ragged Irish boy, she entered the house.

"Johnny says you sent for me, Miss Ermyn," said

she.

"I did, Mrs. Brown," replied Alice. "I wish you would stay with this woman a few hours, until it is no longer necessary, and then take Johnny home with you till morning. I will send David down to stay with you. And I will try to return your kindness at some future day."

"Certainly I will stay, Miss Ermyn," answered Mrs. Brown; "to accommodate you, if not for humanity's sake. I shall not forget how kind you were to my poor Andrew when he died."

We passed on, and heard no more; but soon we saw Alice leave the house and walk quickly homeward. Slowly, we did the same.

"Yes," said Philip, at length, in a low tone, "it was beautiful to see that young, light-hearted girl bending, in tenderest love, over that wretched, dying woman! But her conduct would have been the same did she possess no belief in a heaven or a God. It is her own gentle heart which prompts such actions."

I did not reply, and we walked homeward silently. Philip Howe's was not a heart easily won; neither was my cousin's; yet, as Philip lingered there week after week, I saw that the gentle, but joyous spirit of Alice had awakened in Philip a deeper interest than ever had titled foreign dame; and upon my cousin's cheek came, at his glance, the fitful blush, and her eye had the impassioned look that tells when the deep wells of feeling within a woman's heart are stirred by the wing of love.

We sat one evening by the open window enjoying the twilight. My uncle and aunts were within the

room.

"Alice," said Aunt Anne, "have you heard the sad intelligence in regard to your former friend, Mary Sandford ?"

"No," exclaimed Alice. "What, aunt? Is she not happy? Her husband is"Alice."

"She has none now, "Charles Sandford dead! Did he die suddenly? I hope not."

"He did-very. He was thrown from his horse, and killed by the fall. He died in great agony. And in that-in his extreme mental suffering-consisted Mary's chief misery. She could scarcely love one who treated her as he did."

"Was he unkind to her?" said Alice.

"He was positively cruel. He openly said he only married her out of regard to his father's command; that he disliked her; and he had never seen his child. He said he did not consider himself at all bound by his marriage; that he only lived with her to retain the Sandford property; condemned her

"Would you not wed an infidel?"

"Never!" said Alice, rather surprised at the question.

Philip's cheek grew pale; but he said no more. "Why, Alice," said I, "a person may possess a warm, kind heart and a gifted understanding-I have known such who were called infidels."

"Possibly you may, coz. But, as for me, I could never love one who had too little understanding to comprehend the simple and beautiful truths of the Gospel, too little taste to appreciate them, and too little heart to know and love their Author. Such a one would possess too little understanding, taste, and soul for me."

Philip arose, suddenly, and remarked upon the beauty of the moon, professed himself a great admirer of moonlight, regretted that the dew was so heavy as to preclude the possibility of a moonlight walk accompanied by the ladies, and finally walked down to see its reflection upon the water. Excusing myself, I joined him.

We proceeded in silence to the river. It was a glorious night. The moon was at its full, and the tiny wavelets seemed woven of its golden rays, save where tree or rock threw over the water its welldefined shadow. The mellow ray fell on the dewy grass and trembling spray, lighting up all with a dreamy beauty. The pale features of my friend, as he leaned against the trunk of an elm tree, were clearly revealed. His lip was compressed, and his heavy brow hung low over his restless eye. I saw that he was suffering; yet I spoke not. He was not one to accept pity, nor I to seek confidence, so I silently drank in the glories of the night, and thought of Helen.

"Tom," said Philip at length, abruptly, "hear that whippowil. What does its song say?" "Oh," said I, "there is a voluptuous melancholy in its note just fitting for the night."

"Not so," answered he; "'tis a note of bitter sadness, as where there is no joy in the heart; and the moonlight, the glittering wave, the deep dark sky, and all the beauty here bring no relief. You have never known such sorrow, for yours is a happy, careless spirit, and you have friends to love you. You are you will be happy, Tom; while with me the brightest cup is ever dashed with bitterness.

"Friendless in childhood, deceived and hated in youth, banished from home in earliest manhood, what wonder that gentleness and trust have left my

heart. And now when, by one purer and holier, the crust which had gathered round its better feelings is broken, to be scorned for the very evil my misfortates have occasioned, no wonder the spirit grows sad as the song of yonder bird. Tom, I love your cousin; and I had learned to hope that life would seem to me again not the paltry, worthless thing it has been; and now a wild enthusiasm has made her say she will not wed an infidel !”

There was a moment's pause, and then I spokePhilip, I know that you love Alice. I believe that she loves you. Ask her. It may be"“I will, Tom! Thank you for those words! If she loves me, her religion will be but a slight obstacle. If it will yield to lighter passions, it surely will to love. I will ask her now," said he, after a pause; and, turning, we walked quickly towards the house.

Alice and Helen sat where we had left them. I drew Helen's arm within my own, and we went out upon the long piazza. Philip and Alice followed, and passed to a smaller one off from the conservatory.

"Alice," said Philip, in a low tone, "I must tell you a story to-night."

It was the first time he had called her Alice; and, as the moonlight fell upon his face, she saw that his cheek was flushed, and his eye fixed with a strange, impassioned look upon her face. Alice trembled at she knew not what.

"Listen to me, Alice. When I was in Europe, I met your cousin. He loved my sister, and so we became nearer friends. He told me there of his fair young cousin Alice. He read me her letters, and spoke of her character. I became interested, and promised myself a pleasant acquaintance when I should see her. I returned, and met her. She was graceful, winning, and beautiful; far more so than I had ever seen or dreamed. Then, as I knew her more, I found her gentle, pure, and noble. I learned to love her devotedly, as only those who love rarely ean love. Alice, can you not return this love? I know 'tis but a seared and wayward heart I have to offer; but it is full, full to the brim, with love for you. Will you not accept it, Alice?"

He had paused in his walk, and the moonlight fell upon the face of Alice, revealing the mantling of the rich color on her delicate cheek, and the quiver of her warm, red lip, while the white eyelid concealed her beaming eye, as silently she placed her hand within his own. He pressed his lips paszionately upon her taper fingers for a moment; then, suddenly, he dropped her hand. A struggle passed over his features.

"No, Alice!" said he, "not so, not so! I must tell you all before you yield to me your love. Oh Heaven! my words may even now check the stream as it flows forth to meet me!" He paused for a moment, and then spoke, in a low, earnest, but still hopeful tone: "Alice, I have had a beautiful dream,

and it seemed almost realized. There was a cup filled to the brim with happiness, and life and you had held the cup, beloved, to my lip; but, even as I tasted, I thought your hand trembled, and you had almost withdrawn the life-giving draught forever from me. I must tell you all, Alice, lest a shadow steal between your heart and mine, and grow darker and darker, until both break in agony.

"Alice, you spoke this evening of feelings I have never known, of a love I have never felt. You said you would never wed with one who worshiped not the God you worship. Alice, will you love me still when you know that this ideal being, this impersonation of goodness, who claims your heart's best feelings, is to me only an ideal, an illusion of the imagination, a mere dream, in which I cannot believe; that you alone, dearest, are my God, my idol-that you alone I worship?"

The moonlight again fell on the lady's face; but every trace of color was gone-it expressed only horror and agony.

'Philip," said she, at length, and her voice sounded hollow and strange, "I can never be yours!"

"Alice!" he exclaimed, "think for a moment what you say! Your love is all the world to me! Think, Alice, of my misery, my despair; for every hope of my life now is centred upon you! I will respect your religion; I will never seek to estrange it. Oh, Alice, remember, if we part now, we may never meet again! Must it be so?"

"Oh, God!" said Alice, in a choking voice, "why am I so tempted?"

"Is it temptation, Alice? Do you love me?" asked Philip, in an eager voice.

"Yes, Philip Howe," she answered, "you are far dearer to me than life; but not than my God, and the safety of my soul. I cannot hazard that, even though now I would gladly die but to hear you recall those words which you have spoken. God bless you, Philip-and-farewell!" And, turning slowly, she left him.

Helen followed Alice to the parlor, and I joined Philip. I never saw a face so changed as his. His cheek was pale as the marble, his eyes were closed, and his whole frame shook with emotion. I gazed at him a moment in silence; then I spoke to him. With a strong effort, he controlled his emotion, and, taking my arm, we left the piazza. His face was still pale, but calm and quiet as usual. Oh, the power of love, which can thus bend a proud man's spirit, and crush young woman's heart to atoms! Oh, the power of woman, who, with gentle words, smiles, and tears, gains over man the power to "kill or cure!"

Early on the ensuing morning, Howe left us on pretence of business at a neighboring town.

We had already assembled at the breakfast-table when Alice entered. When she did, Helen and myself scanned her closely. She was very pale. All the beautiful color had gone from her cheeks, save