arms, were admitted by even the most fastidious to be in good taste. She was the daughter of a reputed _millionaire_, beautiful and noble-looking—costly garments and rich gems seemed well fitted for her. It was a grand ball we were going to, and after spending the accustomed half hour in Mr. Lincoln’s library, he gave us into Evart Berkely’s charge. Agnes entreated her father to accompany her with more than her customary earnestness; but he pleaded indolence, and laughingly reminded her that her lover’s presence should be sufficient. I could not account for the tinge of sadness that gloomed over her features; and when Evart and I rallied her on her absence of mind, during our drive to the ball, she frankly confessed her feelings were unaccountable, and said she had been suffering all day from a vague, indefinable sense of approaching evil. We cheered her, and attributed her feelings to nervousness; what evil could one so prosperous and happy have to fear? As usual, she was the centre of attraction, and crowds followed her. Evart hovered around her incessantly, and her quiet, happy looks, as she received his attentions, so openly offered, were to me most fascinating. Her sadness and home yearnings seemed to melt before the bright light of the ball-room, and the merry laughter and gay looks of her friends, put to flight all gloomy thoughts. I thought I had never heard her voice so melodious, her laugh more buoyant, nor her dancing so graceful; she appeared as the embodiment of happiness. During the course of the evening, I was standing alone by a window, in a recess, that opened into a conservatory, almost, if not quite, hidden by the folds of the drapery, enjoying, in a sort of dreamy state, the rich odors of the flowers, and the bewitching strains of the music. The movements of the crowd brought two old gentlemen directly in front of me, in such a manner that I could not have moved if I had wished from my hiding-place. “Hugh Lincoln’s daughter is a beautiful creature,” said one to the other. “She is, indeed,” replied the friend, “and she dresses like a sultana—look at her magnificent gems and gorgeous clothing. Hugh Lincoln has been a fortunate man, and his daughter will be a rich wife for the one that marries her.” “May be so, and may be not,” said the first speaker; “one cannot tell how a man’s estate may turn out while still engaged in business. Hugh Lincoln has been a bold, daring merchant; he always incurs fearful risks, and although he has hitherto been fortunate, one turning of luck may sweep all his grandeur from him—for he perils all on every great speculation.” “She is engaged,” said the friend, “to young Berkely, who is so constantly with her. He is a shrewd, calculating fellow; one might feel certain of Hugh Lincoln’s wealth by the mere knowledge of that engagement.”