Harry Thatcher was poor, that is, he had only his inborn energies to carry him through the world. When very young he had been seized with poetic inspiration, and had sometimes even dreamed of immortality. He wrote with ease and beauty. Page after page came from his prolific pen, almost without an effort; and many of his productions were published and circulated. The world applauded them, and inquiries were made, in the hope of discovering the author, but vainly; for, wrapped in the veil of impenetrable obscurity, he merely listened to the voice of praise. His thirst for fame had been gratified; and he now began to yearn for the companionship of the other sex, to share with him the laurels he had won. Though he had often pictured to himself the felicity of being beloved by a beautiful and intellectual being, on whom he could pour all the treasured feeling which lay hushed in repose, he had never met with such a creature until he had seen Miss Bryarly; for so exalted had been his conceptions of the woman whom he could love, that all he had hitherto met fell far below the standard he had erected in his own mind. He now loved, yet he could never hope to obtain the object of his choice, while his position in life remained undefined, and his fortunes uncertain; he would not offer a portionless hand to one who might choose a suitor from the wealthiest of the land. He knew he had talents which, if properly used, would lead to distinction, and gain competency—but how were they to be profitably employed? To toil for such a woman would be nothing; but then the time required would be a great trial. He pondered long on the subject, but definitely made up his mind to engage in mercantile business, and abandon the classic shades in which he had hitherto wandered, until images of beauty filled his soul. He was not without friends, who were both able and willing to assist him in his claims upon fortune. An advantageous offer was made him, which he accepted, though it involved the necessity of banishment from his native home to a far distant state. The labors of the intellect—which rarely bring fortune, but which are to the scholar a delightful pastime—were now put aside for the musty ledgers of a dingy counting-room. He had chosen for his motto, “hope on—hope ever;” and he did not despair of success. He was now no longer the light-hearted boy to whom life was but a scene of enjoyment and preparation for future struggles—he had but one object, and but one hope; to labor that he might acquire a competency, was accomplishing the first, then to seek and win Mary, would fulfill the second.