IT is evening; the air is soft and balmy, the gorgeous sunset flushes the mountain tops, and falling on the gladsome river causes it to glitter like molten gold. The advancing steamer, heavy with its freight of human hearts, their loves and their cares, is enveloped in a glow of hazy light; the clear mirror of the crystal Hudson reflects the blue, unclouded expanse of the heavens. The acacias gently wave, and the aspens tenderly quiver in the languid air. A moment, and the amber sun sinks below the horizon, and white-robed twilight advances stealthily, as a holy nun bearing incense; softly she distils with fairy fingers, the sparkling dew-drops, and the water-lilies close their waxen petals, and the birds fold their weary wings, all but the nightingale, who ever maketh melody. Now the dragon-fly awakes, and the glancing fish make ripple on the water: the cricket chirps, and the glow-worm and her sister, the fire-fly, prepare their tiny lamps. How blissful a calm steals over the senses; what sweet peace pervades the soul attuned to the harmonies of nature. On such a night as this did Philip D’Arcy and Evelyn wander forth in the clear obscure, their feet sought the green paths where the cool moss grew beside the bubbling streamlet, and the night flowers wept beneath the silent stars, dreamily they sauntered side by side, their souls permeated with the placid tenderness of that soft hour. They spoke not, yet Evelyn felt through her entire being, the passionate gaze of those deep eyes, and the delicious consciousness that she was beloved glowed on her cheek and caused her eyelids to droop in timid emotion; they spake not, for they dared not break the ineffable charm of that mute language. Yet D’Arcy must leave that night, and he had much to say, and Evelyn, by the instinct of love, knew that he had much to say, and yet they could not find it in their heart to break the spell, the elysium of that silent hour. But Philip must no longer keep silence. “Evelyn,” he murmured softly, and it was the first time he had thus named her, “I know not how I shall support absence from—from my friends—from you.” “You will return,” she whispered. “Return—ah! if God spare my life to happiness—to love. Evelyn, forgive—pardon, my mistake; the fatal misapprehension, not of my heart—oh! do not think it; but I believed—I feared you loved another.” “_Never_, Philip! Oh! I know it now, too well!” Then in words of burning eloquence, he poured forth the long restrained passion of his soul. He told how that she was the one love of his life; how that all past feelings were cold and worthless compared to this; how his very being was entwined with hers; and kneeling at her feet he besought her to become his bride—his own. Though the intense joy of that moment was almost an agony, Evelyn by a supreme effort mastering her agitation, besought her lover to rise, then she said, sadly, sorrowfully, tearfully, but with firmness: “Too late—too late. Philip, this can never be.”