to receive all the benefit such a tour can bestow, he had remained long enough to pass beyond the study of merely physical things; and had made certain acquisitions in other matters, more essential to tastes, if not to character. When an American returns from an excursion into the old world, with “I come back better satisfied than ever with my own country,” it is an infallible sign that he did not stay long enough abroad; and when he returns only to find fault, it is equally proof that he has stayed too long. There is a happy medium which teaches something near the truth, and that would tell us that there are a thousand things to be amended and improved at home, while there are almost as many enjoyed, that the oldest and most polished people on earth might envy. John Wilmeter had not reached the point that enabled him to make the nicest distinctions, but he was sufficiently advanced to have detected what he conceived to be signs that this singular young creature, unknown, unsupported by any who appeared to take an interest in her, besides himself and the accidental acquaintances formed under the most painful circumstances, had been abroad; perhaps, had been educated there. The regulated tones of one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard, the distinctness and precision of her utterance, as far as possible removed from mouthing and stiffness, but markedly quiet and even, with a total absence of all the affectations of boarding-school grammar, were so many proofs of even a European education, as he fancied; and before that week was terminated, John had fully made up his mind that Mary Monson—though an American by birth, about which there could be no dispute—had been well taught in some of the schools of the old world. This was a conclusion not reached immediately. He had to be favoured with several interviews, and to worm himself gradually into the confidence of his uncle’s client, ere he could be permitted to see enough of the subject of his studies to form an opinion so abstruse and ingenious. When Mary Monson caught a glimpse of John Wilmeter’s head at her grate—where he stood respectfully uncovered, as in a lady’s presence—a slight flush passed over her face; but expecting him, as she did, she could not well be surprised. “This bears some resemblance, Mr. Wilmeter, to an interview in a convent,” she then said, with a slight smile, but with perfect composure of manner. “I am the novice—and novice am I, indeed, to scenes like this—you, the excluded friend, who is compelled to pay his visit through a grate! I must apologize for all the trouble I am giving you.” “Do not name it—I cannot be better employed than in your behalf. I am rejoiced that you sustain yourself so well against what must be a most unheard-of calamity, for one like yourself, and cannot but admire the admirable equanimity with which you bear your cruel fortune.”