Laura would occasionally hesitate, especially when she found the image of St. Clair rising up in her memory, and she discovered herself analysing his traits of disposition and manner, and contrasting them with those of her cousin. But she blushed when she detected the current of her thoughts, and turned away from the subject as from one that she ought not to contemplate. St. Clair, moreover, was a ripe scholar for his years, perfectly familiar with the poetry of the classics, and with modern literature. His practice was to mark the exquisite passages in his favorite authors, and thus, while indicating his own sentiments and tone of mind, to appeal, as it were, to the calm and reflecting spirit of Laura. How often did she find herself unconsciously meditating upon these gems of thought—these eloquent and impassioned pourings out of the souls of the gifted! How frequently did the brief but expressive notes touch a chord in her own breast, and speak in a still, but deep voice to her own spirit! It was on such occasions that she trembled lest she had mistaken the feeling that animated her with regard to her cousin. But then he was so good, so calm, so attentive! They had grown up side by side! Her mother, her brother, her elder sister, all respected him so much—he was so amiable, and his prospect in life was so excellent! No—it was impossible. There could not be any mistake as to the nature of her feelings, and she would consent and name the day. The day _was_ named, and the bridal took place. The party was large, gay, delightful. I shall never forget that wedding night. It was one of the happiest of my existence—a joyous epoch in memory’s waste, which shines with no common glory as the mind wanders back and lingers above the regretted past. Laura, so charming before, seemed to excel all her former brightness and beauty. Sweet seventeen—the loveliest of the lovely, glittering in gems and satin, with her blue eyes brightened with a double lustre by the excitement of the moment, her auburn hair waving like a flood of moonbeams upon her white shoulders: approving relations and friends around! That indeed seemed a happy moment—the happiest of her life. But _was_ it so? Her affianced also looked remarkably well. He had thrown off his gravity of manner, his dignity of deportment, and joined the jest and laugh as if the world to him also had assumed its sunniest smile. But I need not describe the etceteras of the wedding. At twelve o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Markley were taken in charge by the usual number of select and officiating friends, and driven to their own home, a neat but elegantly furnished establishment, No. 47 —— Row.