The next week brought my dear Eva another tender letter. Arthur had reached Mobile, and though much disappointed at not meeting her there, felt obliged, he said, to smother his desire to fly to New York for her, as so sudden a move, before he had visited his own family, would cause “very unpleasant remarks.” Evelyn was chagrined at this, and so was I. We had both yet to learn how little of the world’s opinion a man is willing to sacrifice for the sake of the one he pretends to love. My friend said little upon the subject, however; but I saw that she anxiously awaited the coming of the following week, when she felt sure of hearing again from her lover. The week came, but brought disappointment—there was no letter. Three weeks more of great anxiety were passed, and still Evelyn heard nothing from home. She was beginning to be seriously alarmed, when one morning, at the beginning of the fourth week, I flew to her room with a letter that the servant had just brought from the village post-office. She grasped it eagerly—the superscription was Arthur’s. She broke the seal, but, as if a sudden presentiment of evil had come over her, she laid it down, and sinking into a chair, burst into tears. “Ellen,” said she, “you must read it first—I have not courage; I feel as if it contained bad news.” I laughed at her, but she insisted upon my reading it first. I took it up, opened it, and silently read as follows:— _Mobile, May 20, 18—._ Dearest Eva,—You will be surprised upon receiving this, to find that I am still in your city instead of being with my own family in New Orleans. But you will, I fear, be pained to learn the object that detains me. Oh, Eva! would to God we had never met; or rather, would that I had died, ere I strove to win your fond, pure heart to myself. But, Eva, I know you well; beneath a gentleness which angels might covet, you bear a proud, firm spirit; and I know further, that you would rather learn the truth now, painful as it may be, than some time hence, when it would be too late to repair the evil. I came here, my Eva, with a heart full of love and joy at the prospect of seeing you again. I was disappointed, most sincerely so, at not meeting you. But another filled your place in the family circle—our orphan cousin, Sarah. I will not say aught in her praise, for you have seen and loved her; but—must I confess it—day after day found me lingering at her side, listening to the music of a voice that I have never heard equaled; and, ere long, I learned to know how sadly I had mistaken my feelings toward you, Evelyn. Condemn me, curse me, if you will—I love, madly love, Sarah! Oh, Evelyn! what words to write to you my own, noble-hearted cousin; but you may, perhaps, thank me for my candor. As yet, I have not committed myself to Sarah—all rests with you. To you I