I present them to you in their wedded joy this evening, because it was the very last happy evening of their united lives. Even then a step was fast approaching, destined to bring discord, doubt, suspicion, and all the wretched catalogue of misery that follow in their train. While Marguerite’s head still rested lovingly on Philip’s bosom, and his fingers still threaded the lustrous black ringlets of her hair, while gazing down delightedly upon her perfect face, a sound was heard through the wind, that peculiar, heavy, swashing sound of a ferryboat striking the beach, followed by a quick, crunching step, breaking into the crusted snow and through the brushwood toward the house. “It is my messenger from the post office--now for news of Nellie!” said Marguerite. Philip looked slightly vexed. “‘Nellie!’--how you love Mrs. Houston, Marguerite! I do not understand such intimate female friendships.” “Doubtless you don’t! It is owing to the slight circumstance of your being a man,” said Marguerite, gayly, compensating for her light words by the passionate kiss she left on his brow as she went from his side to meet the messenger--ah! the ill-omened messenger that had entered the house and was hastening toward the parlor. “Any letters, Forrest?” she eagerly inquired, as the boy came in. “Only one, madam, for you,” replied the man, delivering the missive. “From Nellie, I judge!” she exclaimed, confidently, as she took it; but on seeing the postmark and superscription, she suddenly caught her breath, suppressing a sharp cry, and sank upon a chair. Mr. Helmstedt, who had just turned and walked to the window to look out upon the wild weather, did not see this agitation. Marguerite broke the seal and read; fear, grief and cruel remorse storming in her darkened and convulsed countenance. Philip Helmstedt, having satisfied himself that the wind was increasing in force, and that vessels would be lost before morning, now turned and walked toward his wife. She heard his step, oh! what a supreme effort of the soul was that--an effort in which years of life are lost--with which she commanded her grief and terror to retire, her heart to be still, her face to be calm, her tones to be steady, and her whole aspect to be cheerful and disengaged as her husband joined her. “Your letter was not from Mrs. Houston, love? I am almost sorry--that is, I am sorry for your disappointment as a man half jealous of ‘Nellie’s’ share in your heart can be,” he said. Marguerite smiled archly at this badinage, but did not otherwise reply. “Well, then, if not from Nellie, I hope you heard good news from some other dear friend.” “As if I had scores of other dear friends!--but be at ease, thou jealous Spaniard, for Nellie is almost your only rival.”