"Nothing more than I have expected for a long time," was the reply; and it was with heartfelt satisfaction that he gazed on the fair creature by his side, and thought she would be a star to guide him in the way of virtue. He told her all. And then he explained to her the path he had marked out for himself. "I must leave you for a time, and engage in the noise and excitement of my profession. It will not be long, if I am successful. I must claim one promise from you, that is, that you will write often, for that will be the only pleasure I shall have to cheer me in my absence." She did promise; and when they separated at a late hour, they dreamed not that it was their last meeting on earth. * * * * * "Oh, uncle," said Emily, as they entered the parlor together one morning, "do look at my fig-tree; how beautiful it is. If it continues to grow as fast as it has done, I can soon sit under its branches." "It is really pretty," replied her uncle; and he continued, laughing and patting her cheek, "you must cherish it with great care, as it was a present from ---- now don't blush; I do not intend to speak his name, but was merely about to observe, that it might be now as in olden times, that as _he_ prospers, the tree will flourish; if he is sick, or in trouble, it will decay." "If such are your sentiments," said Emily, "you will acknowledge that thus far his path has been strewed with flowers." Many months passed away, and there was indeed a change. The tree that had before looked so green, had gradually decayed, until nothing was left but the dry branches. But she was not superstitious: "It might be," she said, "that she had killed it with kindness." Her uncle never alluded to the remark he had formerly made; but Emily often thought there might be some truth in it. She had received but one letter from Augustus, though she had written many. Summer had passed, and autumn was losing itself in winter. Augustus Wilson was alone in the solitude of his chamber.--There was a hectic flush upon his cheek, and the low hollow cough told that consumption was busy. Was that the talented Augustus Wilson? he whose thrilling eloquence had sounded far and wide? His eyes were riveted upon a withered rose. It was given him by Emily, on the eve of his departure, with these words, "Such as I am, receive me. Would I were of more worth, for your sake." "No," he musingly said; "it is not possible she has forgotten me. I will not, cannot believe it." He arose, and walked the room with hurried steps, and a smile passed over his face, as he held communion with the bright images of the past. He threw himself upon his couch, but sleep was a stranger to his weary frame.