Walter had formed a strong friendship for the pure-minded and talented young man, whose gentle and affectionate nature needed a strong heart to lean upon; and the lovely Evelyn, too, he regarded with a deep and painful interest; so frail and fair a tiding you seldom saw, with a hold on life so insecure, and yet so gay and unconscious; her thoughts, her hopes, and her whole loving heart were with her brother, for whom she fondly pictured a future of happiness and success in the new world where they were going. And for herself, she had no thought beyond the pleasure of the moment, in adding to his comfort, in contributing to his enjoyment. Such were the feelings of all when they commenced their new life; but Walter Lee was not one toward whom a young and susceptible heart like Evelyn’s could long remain unmoved; his devotion and tenderness to her brother, his earnest, affectionate, and serious pleadings with _her_, upon those subjects in which he was himself most deeply interested, and his brilliancy and eloquence in conversation, charmed her completely, and ere she was herself aware of it, she loved him with all the depth of her nature. Charles knew by the varying color of her cheek, and the ardor with which she hung upon every word and look of their beloved friend, that her heart was wholly his, and he trembled lest her love should not be returned; for he knew the slender chord of her life would soon be broken under the burden of an unrequited passion. With nervous and painful anxiety, therefore, he watched each motion and glance of William’s, for so our hero had told them to call him, his heart, so sensitive when they first met, could not bear to hear from woman’s lips the name of Walter. Evelyn’s voice, too, was singularly like Mabel’s, so much so that at times a tone or word of hers would send the blood in a warm glow to his cheek, and cause him to reply with a tenderness of look and accent that though it was but momentary, always sent a thrill of joy to the young girl’s heart. “William,” said Charles Wentworth, one evening, as they sat together in their new home, admiring the rich hues of the autumnal leaves, and listening to the sweet music of Evelyn’s voice, as it came to them from the little garden where she loved to wander, “how is it, William,” he asked earnestly, “that, with a heart so sensitive and warm, you have never loved?” With a sudden start, and turning away his head while his voice sunk to an accent of touching pathos, William replied, “I do love;” then hastily recollecting himself, he hesitated, and said in a hurried and agitated voice, “Yes—that is—I mean I love an ideal of my own.” But Charles heard not the confused explanation, he dwelt with secret rapture on the thought that Evelyn was loved; she would be so happy, his sweet, his lovely sister; he knew that no one could help loving her.