Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen’s face somewhat better as he regarded it more closely, and when, at the close of the exercises, this young lady was called forward to receive the highest honors of the institution—when she advanced timidly, and bowed modestly, to be crowned with a wreath of rose-buds and lilies of the valley, while a sudden flush kindled in her cheek, flowed into her quivering lips, and illuminated her whole countenance, she grew absolutely beautiful in his eyes. Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was the most intimate friend of his sister Anna, from whom he soon ascertained that she was an orphan, within a few years past, adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of the place—that she was about eighteen—of an amiable, frank and noble disposition, yet chiefly distinguished for her fine intellectual endowments and studious habits. I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already anticipates—the love and marriage of Frederic Preston and Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the sad parting scene, when, within six months from “the happiest day of his life,” Captain Preston set sail for Canton, his brave spirit strangely cast down, the once gay light of his eyes quenched in tears, and with a long tress of rich auburn hair lying close against his heart. On account of some business arrangements which he was to make at Canton, he must be absent somewhat more than two years. He desired greatly to take his young wife with him, but feared, from knowing her delicate organization, that she could not endure the voyage. He left her in a pretty cottage-home, which he himself had fitted up for her, in sight of the harbor. Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister, whose society and assistance were much comfort to her, in her otherwise most lonely lot. Among the many letters which Captain Preston received from his loving and constant wife during his absence, there was one which he read with peculiar joy—with tears of grateful emotion. For this was not alone from the bride of his bosom, but from the mother of his child. Thus wrote Dora: “Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart is already gladdened by his striking resemblance to you, dearest. He has your fine olive complexion, your large black eyes and dark, curling hair. I call him _Frederic_, and have great joy in often repeating the beloved name.”