Hope E——! What a scourge wert thou to every bashful youngster! There was a laughing deviltry in thy eye, which threw mine into a sudden gaze upon vacuity, or inspired an irresistible desire to examine my feet—while a deepening flush of the cheeks proclaimed the intensity of my curiosity! Never were there eyes more keen in detecting the occasional spots which diversify the face of boyhood—in discovering whose hands water would not sully—whose locks the fingers of the friseur might improve. Her laugh was the terror of every bashful youth—it was the signal of his discomfiture—it rang in his ears when alone—it haunted his fancy—it mingled with his dreams. Hope E——, thou torment of my early years! No artifice could hide from thy searching gaze any blemish of person or dress, which my pride or modesty was desirous of concealing. If my face was soiled—if there was a puncture in the elbow of my coat, thy laugh would first announce it. Any unfortunate rent in my nether integuments, was sure of detection, although every possible means was used to conceal it, and that laugh—that wild, gleeful laugh, would summon the eager gaze of all to thine embarrassed victim! My highest audacity could never encounter her eyes; they alone were enough to drive mad a modest youth. And yet I could not avoid them, for in spite of myself, mine were constantly straying in that direction, drawn thitherward by an impulse beyond the control of my will—the nature of which my philosophy has never yet unravelled. Believe me, that in all my visits to her brother, I avoided her with a dexterity, worthy the skill of the most finished adept in the fashionable art of “cutting acquaintance.” But it was vain to struggle against destiny. Poor C——! my bosom’s earliest friend—his mother’s hope—died—suddenly died in the first bloom of youth! How thrilled my young heart, as I knelt by his bedside, and caught from his dying lips a whispered farewell! He died—but, can death destroy a mother’s love? To me was transferred a portion of that deep, gushing affection, which had been thus suddenly driven back upon its source. A week elapsed—and I was summoned to an interview with Mrs. E——. What an invitation for a bashful youth! My heart forboded approaching calamity—it blenched like a wounded man—it already felt the glance of Hope—it trembled at the anticipation of her laugh. But there could be no demur—there was no escape—I _must_ go. View me there, “creeping like snail unwillingly,” over the small grass plot which separated our dwellings—kicking every stone and mushroom upon my path—“screwing up” my courage to an effort the most desperate, it had ever yet been called upon to sustain. I finally succeeded—gained the door—hesitated—my resolution failed—it rallied, and I entered the parlor with all the grace of attitude and mien, which may be observed in a detected sheep-stealer. Hope and her mother were there. I had scarcely made this observation, when I was enfolded in an embrace, nerved by all the