He stopped--struggling with the rush of emotions that overflowed his heart. Alas, THE DEAD! what service can we render to them?--what availed it now, either to the dust below, or to the immortality above, that the fools and knaves of this world should mention the Catherine whose life was gone, whose ears were deaf, with more or less respect? There is in calumny that poison that, even when the character throws off the slander, the heart remains diseased beneath the effect. They say that truth comes sooner or later; but it seldom comes before the soul, passing from agony to contempt, has grown callous to men's judgments. Calumniate a human being in youth--adulate that being in age;--what has been the interval? Will the adulation atone either for the torture, or the hardness which the torture leaves at last? And if, as in Catherine's case (a case, how common!), the truth come too late--if the tomb is closed--if the heart you have wrung can be wrung no more--why the truth is as valueless as the epitaph on a forgotten Name! Some such conviction of the hollowness of his own words, when he spoke of service to the dead, smote upon Philip's heart, and stopped the flow of his words. Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks, and the tender affection of his voice, stood still silent-her eyes downcast, her breast heaving. Philip resumed: "And now, Fanny, my honoured sister, I would thank you for more, were it possible, even than this. I shall owe to you not only name and fortune, but happiness. It is from the rights to which you have assisted me, and which will shortly be made clear, that I am able to demand a hand I have so long coveted--the hand of one as dear to me as you are. In a word, the time has, this day, been fixed, when I shall have a home to offer to you and to this old man--when I can present to you a sister who will prize you as I do: for I love you so dearly--I owe you so much--that even that home would lose half its smiles if you were not there. Do you understand me, Fanny? The sister I speak of will be my wife!" The poor girl who heard this speech of most cruel tenderness did not fall, or faint, or evince any outward emotion, except in a deadly paleness. She seemed like one turned to stone. Her very breath forsook her for some moments, and then came back with a long deep sigh. She laid her hand lightly on his arm, and said calmly: "Yes--I understand. We once saw a wedding. You are to be married--I shall see yours!" "You shall; and, later, perhaps, I may see your own." "I have a brother. Ah! if I could but find him--younger than I am-- beautiful almost as you!" "You will be happy," said Fanny, still calmly. "I have long placed my hopes of happiness in such a union! Stay, where are you going?"