affection she relied with unwavering trust. It was strange, she could hear Miss Hart ridicule others, and join in the laugh; she could sit quietly and see her breathe the subtle venom of slander over the fairest characters, till they blackened and became polluted under her touch, and yet she felt herself as secure as if she were placed on the summit of Mont Blanc, in a region of inaccessible purity and splendour. So blinding is the influence of self-love, pampered by flattery, strengthened by indulgence, and unrestrained by religious principle. One evening, and it chanced to be the evening of the Sabbath day, Henry sat unusually silent, and Miss Hart thought that his eyes were fixed upon her face with a very deep and peculiar expression--"No," he suddenly exclaimed, "I never saw such a countenance in my life." "What do you see so remarkable in it?" asked she, laughing, delighted at what she supposed a spontaneous burst of admiration. "I don't know; I can no more describe it, than one of those soft, fleecy clouds that roll melting away from the face of the moon. But it haunts me like a dream." Miss Hart modestly cast down her eyes, then turned them towards the moon, which at that moment gleamed with pallid lustre through the window. "Your imagination is so glowing," replied she, "that it invests, like the moonlight, every object with its own mellow and beautiful tints." "Jane," continued he, without noticing the compliment to his imagination, and turning to his sister, who was reading intently, "Jane, you must have noticed her--you were at the same church." "Noticed her!" repeated Miss Hart to herself, in utter dismay; "who can he mean?" "Noticed who?" said Mrs. Wentworth, laying down her book, "I have not heard a syllable you have been saying." "Why, that young lady dressed in black, with such a sweet, modest, celestial expression of face. She sat at the right hand of the pulpit, with another lady in mourning, who was very tall and pale." "What coloured hair and eyes had she?" asked his sister. "I could no more tell the colour of her eyes, than I could paint yon twinkling star, or her hair either. I only know that they shed a kind of glory over her countenance, and mantled her brow with the softest and most exquisite shades." "I declare, Henry," cried Mrs. Wentworth, "you are the most extravagant being I ever knew. I don't know whether you are in jest or earnest." "Oh! you may be sure he is in earnest," said Miss Hart. "I know whom he means very well. It is Miss Carroll. Lois Carroll, the grand-daughter of old Mr. Carroll, the former minister of ---- church. The old lady with whom she sat is her aunt. They live somewhere in the suburbs of the city--but never go anywhere except to church. They say she is the most complete little methodist in the world." "What do you mean by a methodist?" asked Henry abruptly--"an enthusiast?"