Rich in all these profuse gifts of nature’s bestowing, the world had likewise been bountiful in its distribution of favors. Her parents were wealthy, and her life flowed on in one unbroken stream of careless, ceaseless pleasure. Scene after scene in the drama of life passed before her, heightened in its fairy, dream-like influence, by the continual good-humor and complacency of both the actors and auditors. The gilding and tinsel, which irised every view, and which that skillful artist, Fashion, presented with ever-varying hue, concealed the misshapen mass on which the coloring was laid. Art caused the plain canvas of life to glow with gaudy tints, and luxury, with unsparing hand, laid on her rainbow pigments. All was gay and joyous in the mansion of Mr. Laverty, on the night when Amy entered her eighteenth year. A splendid ball, unrivaled in brilliancy even in that _recherché_ circle, had brought together the young and beautiful. The glare had attracted the fluttering insect and the ephemera of fashion, as well as those whose positions in society gave them the entrée where “exclusiveness” set her potent seal. Amid the wreath of loveliness which graced the apartments, the fairest flower was Amy; to the stately grandeur of the dahlia she added the softest delicacy of the rose—the air seemed redolent of gaiety where’er she moved, and the beaming joyousness of her smile won hearts in adoration. And yet, was this bright, this gifted girl entirely happy? The world called her so, in its hollow acceptation of the term; she thought herself so. But there was a canker beneath all this brightness. An overbearing pride—a dependence on wealth and flattery for happiness, was all-essential to her existence. She was surrounded by all that fortune and its attendant luxuries could give, and yet something was wanting—it was a heart to love or contract a friendship—it was that sacred mellowing of our natures, which experience of salutary chastening alone can impart. The sunbeam of the world does not produce this ripeness of heart, clouds and gloom will best mature it; like the perfumed shrub, which is scentless until crushed, so from the soul most deeply wrung by wo, rises the incense most grateful to divinity. Though Amy dwelt in a paradise of the world’s planting—amid it a demon was stalking—an insatiate fiend, whose presence was death to true happiness—the same which tempted our first parents to transgress, and this was—pride! “He really looks well to-night—a more manly form I never saw,” whispered a fair young friend to Amy. “Yes, he is passable,” was her reply, “but, then, _who is he_? Nobody—his father I am told is a small farmer in the interior of Lancaster county, and a certain proportion of the yearly proceeds of the dairy and the stock is exclusively set apart, I suppose, to enable my young gentleman to pursue his studies at the University here.” “Really—quite a pity!” was all the “exclusive” young lady could drawl out in reply.