“Mr. Sutherland, I must say that you shock me beyond endurance. You ruthlessly grasp subjects that a man of honour and delicacy scarcely likes to touch. You have dealt severely with the young man, also, in your speech. He may be an enthusiast—enthusiasm is a fault appertaining to youth and genius—and, moreover, persecution is not at all to my taste; it is always the growth of cowardice. I am as far from the spirit of persecution as I am from the spirit of fear. I do not _fear_ that my children will be perverted, my negroes maddened, my niece infatuated, or my son and his wife divorced, by the presence of this high-souled but mistaken young gentleman in my family. I told you that I liked Mr. Mark Sutherland, and I cannot hate him to order. Nevertheless, as it is not expedient that one formerly betrothed of Mrs. Ashley should be here to annoy her by his presence, I will see the young gentleman, and arrange the speedy termination of our engagement.” Mr. Clement Sutherland expressed himself satisfied, arose and left the room. Colonel Ashley remained with his head upon his chest, in an attitude of serious thought, for a few minutes; then, pulling the bell-rope, he summoned a servant. “Go,” he said to the man that entered, “and request Mr. Mark Sutherland to favour me with his company here for a few moments.” The messenger went out, and in search of the tutor. Meanwhile, Mark Sutherland was in his own room, engaged in reading a letter that had arrived by the morning’s mail. It was from his old college friend, Lauderdale. It was a very long letter, being the first that he had written to Mark Sutherland for more than two years. He began by reproaching Mark for dropping the correspondence, and leaving him in ignorance of his whereabouts. He next informed his friend that he owed his knowledge of his present residence to a happy accident—namely, to information given him by a fair lady with whom he had been so fortunate as to maintain an epistolary correspondence; that he expected soon to arrive at Ashley Hall, on a visit to this fair friend, from whom he had received an invitation. (Here a jealous pang shot through the heart of the reader.) “A fair friend”—might that be Rosalie? Had _she_ kept up a constant correspondence with Lauderdale? And had she even invited him to the house? He could not endure the suspicion for a moment. No, not even if it were only a cool, friendly correspondence. He could not endure that Rose should be on friendly terms with any man except himself. He read on. The letter proceeded to tell him all that had befallen the writer since he had last written; how he had settled in a Western country town; how, after some difficulty, he had been admitted to the bar, and how he had already got into a tolerably lucrative practice. Finally came the most startling news of all—viz., that two months previous, he—L. Lauderdale, Esq.—had come into the possession of an estate of sixty thousand dollars, by the demise of his godfather, a