“You have named the most embittering reflection of all,” said Oliver, stopping before him and speaking earnestly; “by that decision the validity of a will is established, which deprives her of the right to dispose of her hand. By its mandate she must resign all; and what could I offer to compensate her for the sacrifice? The homage of my heart, and the devotion of my life, are worthless trifles. I knew, while striving to establish her rights, that if successful I sealed my own unhappiness, and forever cut off all hope of calling her mine. I even debated with myself whether I might not lose the case by mismanagement, and then win the heart of the trusting, beautiful Clara. It was a great conflict for a single moment, but the temptation yielded to a sense of honor and justice. Her cause triumphed; and at least I have the melancholy satisfaction left of knowing that I served the one I love.” Oliver spoke with the eloquence of despair, and his friend listened, engrossed in astonishment and admiration. “I can appreciate the feelings which so trying a situation prompts, but,” added he, the naturally sanguine disposition of his mind prevailing over its first gloomy sensations, “trust to time for a happy termination; for although your way is now overhung with clouds, as you advance into the future, it will become brighter, and a glorious store of happiness will be opened to your view.” “Your words bid me hope,” answered Oliver, “but I fear while you utter them your heart misgives you. No, no, James—I see no room for hope, nothing to brighten my path with a solitary ray of comfort. I must try to banish her image from my heart, and think of her only in connexion with every thing lovely and perfect, never as my first and only love. I can but make the effort, though I believe it will fail.” James was sensible of all the deep despair and silently corroding influence of “hope deferred;” its dreams and disappointments; its moments of bright anticipation succeeded by still darker views of the stern reality; its overwhelming anguish, and its rush of mad gayety more dreadful than tears. He knew, too, the depth of passionate feeling of which Oliver’s heart was capable, and shuddered as he thought that the soul of one so generous and noble would be made the prey of that slow and deadly poison, hopeless love. But by an effort he suppressed the rising emotions of his breast, and continued to urge the possibility of the future removing the obstacles which now appeared so formidable.