Now we need hardly say, that we have written in vain “for that dull elf who cannot picture to himself” how Blanche Kettering, from her very pinafore days, had been over head and ears in love with Frank Hardingstone: not a very sufficient reason, it may be said, for consenting to marry some one else; but yet a natural consequence of that inverted state of feelings we have described above, which under the name of jealousy is capable of more extravagant feats than this. And of whom was pretty Blanche jealous? Why, of her own fast friend and dearest associate, the peerless Mary Delaval! The more she thought over the characters of the two, so suited to each other in every possible way--which very similarity Blanche was not philosopher enough to perceive was an insuperable obstacle to any tenderer feeling than respect--the more she considered their corresponding strength of mind and hardihood of spirit, their equally high standard of worth and elevation of sentiment--the more she reflected on the opinions she had heard each of them express (the bass notes of that moral duet had sunk deep into her heart)--the more she thought over that memorable day, when, at a word from Mary, and at a moment’s notice, Frank had started for South Africa, without so much as coming to wish her (Blanche) good-bye--the more her heart sank within her as she linked those two commanding figures in the halo of love, blurred even to her mental vision by the tears which filled her eyes as she contemplated the bare idea of such a union. Blanche had long struggled against this feeling; she had hoped against hope, as she firmly believed, rather than give Frank Hardingstone up; but now she would deceive herself no more; he was actually corresponding with Mrs. Delaval, which, to say the least of it, she must confess was very indelicate. This was the second letter Mary had received from him. Why had he written to Mary from the Cape? It was surely very strange; and Mary had never offered to show her either of the letters--of course she would rather die than _ask_ to see them. Poor Blanche! little do you guess the cause of your friend’s unusual reserve as regarded these important missives. Mary Delaval, quickened by her own experience of a hopeless love, saw it all--saw that her high-minded, manly correspondent was devoted heart and soul to Blanche; and she pitied him, even as she pitied herself, for a misplaced attachment. But it was not for _her_, of all people, to do aught that might shake Blanche’s affection for Cousin Charlie--_she_ could not be so selfish, so traitorous, as to lend her assistance to anything, however slight, that might in the most remote manner wean Blanche from her cousin, and leave him free. So Mary, treasuring the letter, as containing oft-repeated mention of the beloved name, placed it in her bosom, but did not volunteer to show a single line of it to a living soul. Therefore is Blanche desponding