nature of a boy like that, or see in him the springs of an ambition he knows not of himself? Nay, it would be no rash boast to say that I have deciphered more complicated inscriptions than those upon his heart I have traced some upon his sister's!” The last three words he uttered with a slow and deep enunciation, leaving a pause between each, and bending on her a look of intense meaning. Kate's cheek became scarlet, then pale, and a second time she flushed, till neck and shoulders grew crimson together. “You have no confidences to make me, my dear, dear child,” said D'Esmonde, as, taking her hand, he pressed her down on a sofa beside him. “Your faltering lips have nothing to articulate,----no self-repinings, no sorrows to utter; for I know them all!” He paused for a few seconds, and then resumed: “Nor have you to fear me as a stern or a merciless judge. Where there is a sacrifice, there is a blessing!” Kate held down her head, but her bosom heaved, and her frame trembled with emotion. “Your motives,” resumed he, “would dignify even a rasher course. I know the price at which you have bartered happiness,--not your own only, but another's with it!” She sobbed violently, and pressed her hands over her face. “Poor, poor fellow!” cried he, as if borne away by an impulse of candor that would brook no concealment, “how I grieved to see him, separated, as we were, by the wide and yawning gulf between us, giving himself up to the very recklessness of despair, now cursing the heartless dissipation in which his life was lost, now accusing himself of golden opportunities neglected, bright moments squandered, petty misunderstandings exaggerated into dislikes, the passing coldness of the moment exalted into a studied disdain! We were almost strangers to each other before,--nay, I half fancied that he kept aloof from me. Probably,”--here D'Esmonde smiled with a bland dignity,--“probably he called me a 'Jesuit,'--that name so full of terror to good Protestant ears; but, on his sick-bed, as he lay suffering and in solitude, his faculties threw off the deceptive influences of prejudice; he read me then more justly; he saw that I was his friend. Hours upon hours have we passed talking of you; the theme seemed to give a spring to an existence from which, till then, all zest of life had been withdrawn. I never before saw as much of passion, with a temper so just and so forgiving. He needed no aid of mine to read your motives truly. 'It is not for herself that she has done this,' were words that he never ceased to utter. He knew well the claims that family would make on you, the heartrending appeals from those you could not but listen to! 'Oh! if I could but think that she will not forget me; that some memory of me will still linger in her mind!'--this was his burning prayer, syllabled by lips parched by the heat of fever; and when I told him to write to you--”