“Oh, no! He tells me he will never marry, but of course the hour of temptation and trial is yet to come. He has changed very little within the last three years, and although not so gay and reckless as formerly, his spirits are still excellent. Mr. Markley prizes him very highly, and frequently consigns me to his care for a stroll, while he hurries off to some political club or abominable meeting. Can you furnish me with any remedy for the sort of infatuation I have described in the case of Morton? I am really provoked at him at times, and have ventured to remonstrate more than once, but never with a good effect either upon his temper or his conduct. Oh! how frequently have the lines of the poet risen to my memory during the tedious hours of waiting and of watching! ——‘May slighted woman turn, And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no! Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek By needless jealousies; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estrange her once, it boots now how, By wrong or silence, anything that tells A change has come upon your tenderness— And there is not a high thing out of heaven Her pride o’ermastereth not.’ I ridiculed them when they were first pointed out to me by St. Clair, but sad experience has taught me better.” Such, in brief, was the nature of the conversation of the night. I remained until a late hour, exceedingly anxious to see my old friend, but the clock struck eleven, and he had not returned. Wandering homeward, a crowd of strange thoughts pressed upon my brain. Can he love this gentle being? I asked. And then his whole course through life came to my recollection, and I dismissed every doubt. He does love her to the extent of his ability. Then why neglect her? Why permit melancholy to prey upon her gentle spirit? Why subject her to the fascinations of such a man as St. Clair?—temptations at which both would shrink with horror at first, but which, sooner or later, with such a being, such hearts, such sympathy of soul and of taste, must establish a bond very like that of love! The subject was a painful one, and I dismissed it, unwilling to probe it to the bottom.