I thought for a little while before answering. It did not seem just right to draw aside the veil that strangers' eyes might look upon a life-passage such as was written in Wallingford's Book of Memory. The brief but fierce struggle was over with him; and he was moving steadily onward, sadder, no doubt, for the experience, and wiser, no doubt. But the secret was his own, and I felt that no one ought to meddle therewith. Still, a relation of the fact, showing how deeply the man could feel, and how strong he was in self-mastery, could not but raise him in the estimation of Mrs. Montgomery, and increase her confidence. “It is hardly fair,” said I, “to bring up the circumstances of a man's life over which he has drawn a veil; and which are sacred to himself alone. In this case, however, with the end of enabling you more fully to know the person you think of sending abroad on an important service, I will relate an occurrence that cannot fail to awaken in your mind an interest for the young man, such as we always feel for those who have passed through deep suffering.” Blanche was sitting by her mother. Indeed, the two were almost inseparable companions. It was a rare thing to find them apart. I saw her face kindle with an earnest curiosity. “Judge Bigelow's nephew was married, recently,” I said. “So the Judge informed me. He spoke very warmly of his nephew, who is a merchant in New York, I think he said.” “He is a partner in a mercantile firm there. The bride was Squire Floyd's daughter; a very superior girl--lovely in character, attractive in person, and, mentally, well cultivated. I have always regarded her as the flower of our town.” “The young man had good taste, it seems,” Mrs. Montgomery remarked. “Better than the young lady showed in taking him for a husband,” said I. “Ah? Then your opinion of him is not so favorable.” “He was not worthy of her, if I possess any skill in reading character. But there was one worthy of her, and deeply attached to her at the same time.” “This young Wallingford, of whom we were speaking?” “The same.” “But she didn't fancy him?” “She did fancy him. But--” “Was not able to resist the attractions of a New York merchant, when put in opposition to those of a humble country lawyer?” “The truth lies about there. She took the showy effigy of a man, in place of the real man.” “A sad mistake. But it is made every day,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “and will continue to be made. Alas for the blindness and folly that lead so many into paths that terminate in barren deserts, or wildernesses where the soul is lost! And so our young friend has been crossed in love.” “The experience is deeper than usual,” said I. Then I related, with some particularity, the facts in the case, already known to the reader. Both the mother and daughter listened with deep attention. After I had finished my story, Mrs. Montgomery said,