“Recollect that she had early learned to pity him for his personal defects, and though ‘pity’ may be ‘akin to love’ in our sex, yet no woman ever loves a man she must look down upon with compassion.” “But his nobler qualities must have commanded her respect.” “Suppose they were so far above her perceptions as to inspire her with _awe_ instead of respect? A woman never loves the man she _pities_, nor will she love the man whose superiority she _fears_. Jessie compassionated Herbert’s bodily weaknesses, and she had a vague terror of his stern, uncompromising ideas of right and wrong.” “Nevertheless, I am sure she married Herbert, uncle.” “You are mistaken, Annie. Herbert continued his devotion for years; he learned to love her child as if it were his own, and gave proofs of disinterestedness and tenderness such as no woman could misinterpret; but he never offered her his hand.” “Why not?” “Because he _knew_ it would be rejected, and he preferred being a life-long friend, to occupying the position of an unsuccessful suitor.” “Then I suppose she never married again.” “You are wrong again, Annie. At forty years of age, when her beauty was faded, and her character had deteriorated amid the follies of society, she married a man some ten years her junior, who, tempted by the income which _Herbert_ had bestowed upon her, flattered her into the belief that she had inspired him with the most passionate love.” “And her child?” “Was adopted by Herbert Darsie, and at his death inherited his estate.” “Poor, poor Herbert!” “He suffered the penalty which all must pay who give to earth the high and holy sentiment which is only meant to make us companion with the angels in heaven. Not one in a thousand can love thus, and that one always finds that in the world’s vast desert, he has expended his strength in vain—‘hewn out broken cisterns which can hold no water.’” * * * * * THE UNMASKED. BY S. ANNA LEWIS. The struggle is over—my pulses once more Leap free as the waves on the surf-beaten shore; And my spirit looks up to that world of all bliss, And heaves not a sigh for the faithless in this. ’Twas in Sorrow’s bleak night, when the sky was all dark, And the tempest shrieked loud round my storm-beaten bark, That arose, ’mid the darkness, thy radiant form, Like the rainbow illuming the brow of the storm. An angel thou seemedst, that had come to the earth, To guide me—to nourish my heart in its dearth; And blindly, as Paynim kneels down to his god, I have loved thee—have worshiped the earth thou hast trod. But this waste of affection—this prodigal part— Is over—the mask has been torn from thy heart— And back with affright and amazement I shrink— At a fount so unholy my soul cannot drink.