It was a cold winter morning, when Mr. Archer suddenly entered his counting-house and ordered it to be immediately closed. On Henry’s (for so must we call him) looking up, he perceived his friend’s countenance was clothed with grief, and the fresh crape upon his hat told that death had been busy with his house. Bidding Henry, who was domesticated in his family, accompany him home, he informed him he had just received letters announcing the death of an only and well-beloved brother, and added, he was hourly expecting the arrival of an orphan niece, now committed to his charge. His companion asked no questions, for fear of stirring the fountain of grief afresh. On entering the drawing-room at night, he was presented to Miss Archer, but what was his surprise and consternation on lifting his eyes to her face, to see the fair sleeper before him! The face was paler than the miniature’s, and wore a more chastened and somewhat older expression, for sorrow had indeed visited her. Both parents had slept their last sleep, since she slumbered so unconsciously in his presence. Stammering forth some faint apologies, Bradley left the room and the house, and who may say what wild visions thronged his restless couch that night! Months glided away, and Mr. Archer beheld, with some slight misgivings, the growing intimacy between his niece and Henry. Not but that he would willingly have given her to his _protégé_, could the cloudy mystery which hung over the young man have been cleared to his satisfaction. But during the three years Henry had been with him, he had never received letter or communication, of any kind, from friend or foe. For a young man to stand so utterly alone, “looked strange,” to say the least of it. Entering the room one evening, where Miss Archer and Henry were sitting, her uncle, in a light and laughing tone, said, “How is this, Emily? Young Dalton has been making serious complaints concerning the obduracy of heart of an ungrateful niece of mine. What has he done to provoke her displeasure? ‘and why won’t she wed?’” “Nay, dear uncle, you know my heart and hand have long been pledged to the restorer of my miniature.” “And so my Emily stands pledged to a nameless robber! Would she like it to reach his ear through the walls of a prison?” “Most sincerely do I hope he is free, for he must be a gentle ruffian, and having stolen naught but my picture, I can’t find it in my heart to be very angry; the compliment, dear uncle, only think of the compliment!” “Ay, but the compliment paid to your father was a little more costly, was it not?”