One evening when quiet, an unusual guest, seemed to reign throughout the seminary of G——; when the hum of subdued voices, and the softened tones of some distant harp or guitar echoed through the halls only at intervals, we sat together in the big, old-fashioned parlor—Mary, her cousin Claude Norrice, who was the pastor of the village, and myself. Mary was looking from the window somewhat sadly—Claude was gazing into her large dark eyes fondly and earnestly, while my poor foolish heart was weaving a bright fabric for those two gifted beings who sat beside me—a dream which I was to waken from, even before that bright ray of moonlight which was sleeping in its holiness upon Mary’s brow, and which I had been watching for the last ten minutes, should pass away. So golden and so fleeting is the light which hope flings on the fairy fabric of _love_. “Sing us something, Cousin Mary,” said Claude, and her musical voice stole upon our hearts in its magic sweetness, chanting softly that song she loved, “Ave Sanctissima!” Insensibly my heart was yielding to the strain, and I walked in old cathedrals “high and hoary,” listening to some fair nun, as she chanted her mysterious vesper-hymn; when my fancies were suddenly dispelled by Claude’s voice, begging Mary would choose some other song. “It is very beautiful,” said he, “and seems doubly so, Mary, sung by your dear voice; but the devotion it expresses for an ideal object is very disagreeable to me.” I was called from the room at that moment, and when I returned an hour later, I knew that Claude Norrice had told his cousin how dearly and truly he loved her, how indispensable was her presence—her affection to his life’s pathway. Mary stood before him, her head erect, as she said proudly and with flashing eyes— “I’m not to be treated as a mere child, Claude Norrice—I tell you again that nothing you can say to me—no professions of affection you have made, shall lure my heart from the faith of my _mother_.” And she bowed her head in veneration as she spoke that name, and crossed her fair white arms upon her breast as if she would still its wild beatings. But I saw her cheek grow white as he bowed down and kissed her forehead, and I saw her lips quiver fast, as he said: “The shadow is on my heart, Mary—the shadow which your cruel words have cast there, and it can never be effaced. God forgive you, Mary—and Father in Heaven, help me! help me!” Again he bowed down and kissed her, long and wildly—turned his face toward me pale with agony, and rushed from the room.