turf--all these accusations were brought to my father by credible witnesses; and, alas! they were too true to be refuted. My father--heaven and the holy saints bless his gray head!--kept them from me as long as he could. He forgave him again and again, and used every means that love and reason could employ to bring him back into the way of right; but he could do nothing against the force of such fatal habits as those to which my poor Laurence had now become wedded. With every good intention, and with much strong love for me burning sadly amid the wreck of his virtues, he yet would not refrain: the evil one had overcome him; he was his prey here and hereafter. Oh, no--not hereafter!" she added, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, "if prayer, if fasting, patient vigil, incessant striving, may procure him pardon--not forever his prey! Our engagement was broken off; and this step, necessary as it was, completed his ruin. He died...." Here a strong shudder shook her from head to foot and I half rose, in alarm. The next instant she was calm. "Now, you know my history," continued she. "It is a tragedy of real life, which you will do well, young painter, to compare with your own!" With a kindly pressure of the hand, and a gentle smile--oh! so sweet, so pure and heavenly!--Julia Reay left me; while I sat perfectly awed--that is the only word I can use--with the revelation which she had made both of her history and of her own grand soul. "Come with me to my study," said Mr. Reay, entering the room; "I have a world to talk to you about. You go to-morrow, you say. I am sorry for it; but I must therefore settle my business with you in good time to-day." I followed him mechanically, for I was undergoing a mental castigation which rather disturbed me. Indeed, like a young fool--as eager in self-reproach as in self-glorification--I was so occupied in inwardly calling myself hard names, that even when my host gave me a commission for my new picture, "The Return of Columbus," at two hundred and fifty pounds, together with an order to paint himself, Mrs. Reay, and half-a-dozen of their children, I confess it with shame, that I received the news like a leaden block, and felt neither surprise nor joy--not though these few words chased me from the gates of the Fleet, whither I was fast hastening, and secured me both position and daily bread. The words of that beautiful girl were still ringing in my ears, mixed up with the bitterest self-accusations; and these together shut out all other sound, however pleasant. But that was always my way.