"I do not look forward with so much despondency as you do, Mr. Hubert," said Margaret, "even now in the first anguish of discovery and despair; in all the shame and the agony of having been duped and trifled with--a suffering that you can never fully comprehend; I look forward more courageously than you do. Let me first speak of myself. I have often heard of a dream of entire happiness--a state of being, too brilliant to last; dispelled by accident, or misfortune, or death. My dream has been dispelled. All is over with me but life and its duties; but I have no suspense and I sometimes think that suspense is the only torture under which we cannot be still. Any thing else, believe me, Mr. Hubert, is endurable. I wake to a deeper sense of the duties of life; the great lesson which we should ever learn by the loss of its pleasures. Let me urge the same thing upon you. You have, forgive me, in seeking a happiness that has been denied you, lost sight of all that is better than happiness. As I have been somewhat the cause of this, let me, if I can, atone it. Let me, if you esteem me--I hope you do--urge you to retrieve this great mistake. Let me entreat you to resume your profession--to direct your mind to subjects worthy of your energy and your talent. You know how you would delight your father by this determination; and let it be your great consolation, as it is mine, that when happiness is denied to ourselves, we have still the power of conferring it upon others; and while we keep in mind that there is a Heaven above us, let us not concern ourselves too deeply with the thorns beneath our feet." As Margaret spoke with an earnestness of feeling that forced the tears from her eyes, the soft but strong west wind brought distinctly to the porch where they sat, the sound of a passing bell. The tones were so appropriate; they seemed so completely the echo of her sentiments, that both remained perfectly silent for some time. Margaret thought that her companion was moved by her words, for he remained with his face hidden in his hands; and still at intervals, the dull sound struck upon their ears. "There," he said looking up at length, "that is the knell of the poor girl you saw yesterday." "Is it?" said Margaret, "I envy her," and she dried her eyes once or twice; but she scarcely had power left to weep. She had passed half the night in tears, and she was now feeling the exhaustion which follows strong emotion. "But I am surprised;" she said, "I should never have imagined that she was as near her end. It is a very treacherous complaint. Is it not?" "I believe so," he returned absently. "The poor mother!" said Margaret, her voice trembling, "what sad distress there is all around us in this world, and others are suffering too, Mr. Hubert; there is no sorrow like the death of those we love." "You are thinking of Haveloc," said her companion, "it galls me to hear you speak of him with compassion."