not regained, nor even sought to regain, the confidence, esteem, and affection of her family. An atmosphere of distrust, coldness, and reserve, surrounded, chilled, and depressed her spirit, yet could not destroy the deep enthusiasm of some hidden devotion that inspired her soul, and gave to her beautiful, pale face, the air of rapt religious enthusiasm seen on the pictured brows of saints and angels. Even now, upon this festive occasion, as she walks between her friends, the same deep, serious, earnest fervor glows under the surface of her eloquent countenance. They were imparting to her, as girls will, their girlish mysteries, and inviting her to a similar confidence. But Margaret was pre-occupied and abstracted, and though her replies were always affectionate, they were not always to the point. At last the brown-eyed and gentle little Grace ventured to say: “I tell you what, Margaret, it is said that there are two sorts of people in this world--those who love, and those who permit themselves to be loved. If so, then you belong to the latter class.” “Why do you think so, dear Grace?” “Why?--here my arm has been around your waist, and it might better have been around the stem of an oak sapling! that at least would have nodded over me a little; but you, you walk on erect, silent, thoughtful, and when I speak to you of the flowers along our path, you speak of the clouds over our heads, or make an equally applicable response to my observation, which shows how much attention you pay to what I say.” “I beg your pardon, dear Grace.” “Of course you do, and of course I grant it, which will not prevent your offending in the same way the very next minute.” “Cease, chatterbox!” exclaimed Clare Hartley. “Remember that Miss Helmstedt has other subjects to occupy her mind to the exclusion of your mature ideas. She is engaged, you know. Her affianced is far away. Like that other ‘Margaret, who in Lithgow’s bower, all lonely sat and wept the weary hour,’ she may be thinking of:-- “‘The war against her native soil Her lover’s risk in battle broil.’ “Though after all, since they seem to be so quiet up there, I shouldn’t wonder if she is only thinking of household linens, with a view to housekeeping. Let the ‘plenishing’ be on the most liberal scale, Margaret, for I and Grace intend to spend a great deal of time with you after you are married.” “And we are to be your bridesmaids, of course, are we not, dear Margaret?” “Dear Grace, pray do not speak of any future event with such presumptuous assurance. My marriage may never take place,” replied Margaret, with a mournful earnestness that she did not attempt to conceal or modify. “Your marriage may never take place!” exclaimed both her companions, in consternation. “I mean that life is full of vicissitudes; one or the other of us may die.” “How gravely you speak! You are certainly the daughter of Heraclitus, the crying philosopher. Why, Margaret----”