A quiet happiness was now Mary’s—a happiness “which passeth show.” Heaven had blessed her, she believed, beyond her dearest hopes. But, alas! the joys of the heart are more fleeting than the days of spring. Where is the mortal that can secure to himself the cup of happiness without alloy? It dwells not under a regal canopy—for a diadem often makes the head ache. Nor with the conqueror, however great his glory in the battle-field—the mangled bodies—the reeking blood—the groans of the dying would prevent it. The poet, then—all his happiness consists in being very miserable. The learned—nay, all they acquire makes them but the more dissatisfied with themselves—and self-dissatisfaction, every one knows, tends not to the promotion of happiness. Then the lover, with the draught in his hand, cannot say it will reach his lips. A something may come between him and his bliss, and the cup may pass away. The cup that Mary had longed to drain to the bottom, was about to be dashed away. The glory that brightened the sky of her being was beginning to darken—and the storm threatened to crush the flower of her affections, even in its happiest moment of existence. One day she received a letter, written in an unknown hand; she opened it carelessly, but soon became absorbed as she read the following: Miss Bryarly,—Believing you to be the affianced wife of Mr. Thatcher, I take the liberty of writing to you to admonish you of his conduct. If his engagement with you is not broken off, he must either be a villain, or he is acting like one. I have had a watchful eye on him for some time, during which he has been paying the most constant and devoted attention to Miss Morton; so far, indeed, has he gone, as to induce her family to believe that he is about to make proposals for her hand. One of her brothers so expressed himself to me a few days since. I hope you will inform your father of these facts, that he may use every precaution against the duplicity of one who would have deeply injured you. A Friend. “This letter I pronounce a base falsehood,” said she, handing it to her father, “and its author a calumniator, who, like an assassin, seeks darkness to cover his evil deeds, for he has not dared to sign his name.”