Mrs. Yorke had a long conversation with her niece’s lover, that evening, and laid down the law rather severely to him. No one but Edith, herself, and Mr. Yorke were to know of his proposal. “I do not wish her to be talked about, and assigned to any one, when nothing is decided,” she said. “It is for that purpose that I am taking her away so soon, to prevent talk. If, when you come home next year, she wishes it, and nothing has happened to raise any new objection, I shall not oppose you.” He sat a moment silent. He asked nothing better than he had got; but his proud spirit rebelled at the manner in which the promise was given. He was tolerated because they could not help themselves. 30 “Do you agree to that?” she asked, after waiting a moment. “Certainly!” he replied. “I forgot to say so, and to thank you, because, excuse me! I was thinking how much poorer an offering is a man’s whole heart and faithful allegiance than a full purse.” “If you had millions, it would make no difference, Mr. Rowan,” Mrs. Yorke said hastily, her color rising. “If I am not cordial in welcoming you into this relation, my reasons are not mercenary, nor--” her manner softened--“nor because I do not respect and like you.” She held her hand out to him. He bent gallantly over it, murmured a word of thanks, and took leave without saying any more. He was willing, almost glad, that Edith should go home. He welcomed any stir and progress in events which would seem to pass the time more quickly along. Let him get over his year of probation, and, during it, be separated from her, if they chose. Her doubt and trouble in their new relations troubled him. When he should come again, all would be settled. He was full of hope and triumph, and far removed from jealousy. She had said that she should not think of marrying any one but him; and what Edith said was as sure as sunrise. TO BE CONTINUED. ---------- (IN MEMORIAM.) A CONVERT. 1856. (These lines express the feelings of one, now at rest, who was loved and honored by all who knew him--including, probably, those who cast him off.) I. Ah me! my alienated friends, Whose friendship, like a branch half-broke, With all its mildewed blossoms bends, And piecemeal rots;--how kind the stroke That bond--your bondage--sent to sever! Yet, can I wish it? Never, never! II. I hear them tread your festal floors: When now the lights no longer burn, Alone I haunt your darkened doors: The guests are gone; yet I return: In dreamless sleep outstretched you lie: I dream of all the days gone by.