“He is great and god-like in his _powers_,” replied the angel. “This, men see—and as he garnishes his viands with the counterfeit of love, their dazzled vision penetrates not the indignity he offers. And, oh, when a being thus armed with the panoply of the archangel, sent forth with powers to unseal the book of knowledge to the starving spirits of the mind, that they, gazing upon its effulgent pages, may drink in the glory, light and love of Deity! When such a being not only immolates this power-divine upon earth’s altars, but, seizing thence unhallowed incense, wafts it forth, a _poison_ to the young, confiding soul—a cry of agony mounts up to heaven, that echoes through the mazes of eternity.” The door opened, and Dick entered. “What, Arthur, you up still! Why do you shut yourself up in this confined room, poring over books, while there is so much fun in life! You don’t know how much you’ve lost. There was a splendid party at Mrs. M.’s this evening, and the ladies were really quite displeased with me for not bringing you along. Why, Arthur, you are getting to be quite a _Lion_! To tell the truth, I am jealous of you; and yet I shall not, after this, dare to show my face any where, unaccompanied by your beautiful self, for fear of getting no reception at all. I’m half sorry that I persuaded you to go to Mrs. Bailey’s ball, since you seem destined to eclipse me every where. Still, I could not bear to see you sit here moping, night after night, and month after month, all alone. But, ah, ha! Mr. Arthur! I see your time’s not all spent in dreaming, either! May I ask, of what fair damsel that is a memento?” pointing to the snow-drop. Arthur had raised his eyes from his book, and was listening with pleased attention to the rattle of his friend; but at the mention of the snow-drop, the smile fled from his parted lips. Taking the little flower and gazing upon it, in melancholy accents, he said, “’Twas Amy’s favorite—and it is so like her sweet self, that I love to have it near me. The violet, too, I never meet one but I pluck it; to me it is as if her own blue eyes were mirrored in its little petals.” “Oh, Arthur, you must not think of her—it always makes you melancholy; and she has been dead now so long.” “The thoughts of my mother and sister, Dick, are the only things that really give me any pleasure; and could I once believe that their sweet spirits could die, I would, without hesitation, subscribe to the opinions of Voltaire.” “Well, Arthur, I don’t trouble myself about any thing of the kind, as you well know—and you must not. Live and enjoy life while you can, is my motto. I have promised to take you to Mrs. G.’s, and you must go—so come, let’s to bed.” * * * * *