In due time I learned many circumstances of her early history. At the age of eighteen, she had plighted her faith to a young officer in the navy. Before arrangements could be effected for their marriage, he was compelled to depart on an expedition to the South Seas. For nearly two years, Emma St. Clair received occasional letters—all evincing unchangeable love in her betrothed. After this period he ceased to correspond. The agony of separation was enhanced by doubts as to his fate. In a state of mind bordering on distraction, she passed many a weary year. Time at length soothed her sorrow; but her love was the true—unchangeable love of woman, and the wounds of a bleeding heart were never closed. Various offers of marriage were rejected—she could never love again. This affecting little sketch brought tears to the eyes of the narrator. She proved to me, in her melancholy history, that the female heart is not fickle when it truly loves, and that the constancy of woman “passeth all understanding.” No alternative was now left me, but to continue my travels. Having taken a place in the stage for W——, I set out on my journey, consoling myself with the reflection that I was destined to be miserable all the days of my life. My attention, however, was diverted from this gloomy presentiment, by a young lady of seventeen, who was returning from a boarding-school in the city, to her parental domicil at W——, and who unfortunately chanced to be the only passenger beside myself. Taking the liberty of a fellow traveller, I addressed her with becoming gallantry. “You are travelling to W——?” I said. “Yes, sir,” she blushingly replied. “Have you ever been there?” “Yes—my parents reside in W——.” “Indeed!—you have been on a visit, then, to P——?” “No sir—I have been to school; and I am going home to spend the vacation. Pa would have come for me, but he could not spare time.” “Oh,” said I, “you will not be unprotected. Fortunately I am going to W—— myself.” “But Pa says I mustn’t talk to strangers.” “Ah, your Pa is—an old gentleman! My name is Weston—Harry Weston, so I hope I am no longer a stranger.” “Indeed—I don’t know sir; I never heard of you before.” This was very candid, and very discreet. I remained silent; and my fair companion seemed to be deeply engaged in perusing a little work which she drew from her reticule. “What may that be?” I at length ventured to inquire, although I was pretty well convinced it was the ‘Young lady’s Amaranth,’ or a Pocket Lacon, containing ‘Good Advice in small Parcels.’ “This book, sir?” “Yes.” “A hymn-book, I think—that is, it _is_ a hymn-book, which Mrs. Wriggleton told me to read on the way.” “Mrs. Wriggleton is a very accomplished lady,” I observed. By the by, I had never heard of her before. “You know her then!” cried my fair young traveller. “Yes—I am slightly acquainted.” “Well,—I _think_ I heard her mention your name!” “Very probably. Yours is Miss Fanny Cullobe.” “No. Mine is Corinna Wilton.”