Among the passions of the human soul is one not often, if ever, mentioned as such by moralists and metaphysicians: the passion of self-devotion. Yet, that this certainly exists, and deserves to be classed with the others, is proved by the large number of human beings acting under its influence. It acts in religion, in love, in benevolence, in philanthropy, and patriotism—but it is totally distinct from and independent of each—a separate passion, sometimes acting alone. This passion, in its right motion, inspires the highly beneficial devotion of the Sister of Charity—in its perverted action, kindles the barren enthusiasm of the nun. A philanthropist, a patriot, under the rational influence of this passion, becomes as the Sister of Charity, one of the greatest benefactors of his race; under its irrational influence, becomes as the secluded nun or monk, _lost_; or as the fanatic, mischievous or dangerous to society. They returned to the house. Meeting Mrs. Green first, Sophie led the youth up to her, and presented him as the son of Mr. Withers, just arrived from college. The lady received him with much courtesy, asked him where she should send for his trunks, and whether he would not prefer being shown into a dressing-room before being introduced into the drawing-room. Expressing his thanks with a gentle grace, he named the village tavern as the place where his baggage lay, and declining the use of a _chambre de toilette_, bowed his leave, and giving his arm to Sophie, passed into the room; the rooms were thinned out considerably, most of the company had strayed out into the garden and groves. Mr. Withers was standing near the window in conversation with the bishop. Sophie, leaving Raymond at a short distance behind, walked up to him, and laying her small hand upon his arm, said gently and cheerfully— “Mr. Withers, your son has come at last—you expected him, I believe.” Withers started, more at the cheerful, genial tone in which these words were spoken, than at the news they conveyed. The bishop, also, whose kindly affectionate nature scarcely let a young person pass him without a caressing word or gesture,—the bishop turned around, and patting her chin, said archly:— “You have got over your terror, little lady; you seemed to think I was going to hang you when you stood up before me.” But Sophie stepped back, and beckoning Raymond to approach, presented him.