Look deeper still. If thou canst feel Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kept a portion back While I have stalked a whole. Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine can not fulfill? One chord that any other hand Could better wake, or still? Speak now--lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. Evelyn Selby stood at the window, one afternoon about three weeks after Mr. Huntingdon's death, looking out on the snowy gardens of the square, where two rosy-faced lads were pelting each other with snow-balls. She was watching them, seemingly absorbed in their merry play; but every now and then her eyes glanced wistfully toward the entrance of the square with the sober expectancy of one who has waited long, and is patient; but weary. Erle had once owned to Fay, in a fit of enthusiasm, that Evelyn Selby was as good as she was beautiful; and it was true. Placed side by side with Fern Trafford, and deprived of all extraneous ornament of dress and fashion; most people would have owned that the young patrician bore the palm. Fern's sweet face would have suffered eclipse beside her rival's radiant bloom and graceful carriage; and yet a little of the bloom had been dimmed of late, and the brown eyes had lost their brightness. As a well-known figure crossed the square, she turned from the window with a sigh of relief; "at last," she murmured, as she sat down and made a pretense of busying herself with some fancy work; but it lay unheeded on her lap as Erle entered and sat down beside her. "I am afraid I am very late this afternoon, Eva," he said, taking her hand. "Mrs. Trafford wanted to speak to me, and so I went up to her room; we had so much business to settle. She has given me a great deal of trouble, poor woman; but I think I shall have my way at last." "You mean about the money?" "Yes; I think she will be induced to let me set aside a yearly sum for her maintenance. She says it is only for her children's sake if she accept it; but I fear the truth is that she feels her strength has gone, and that she can not work for them any longer." "And she will not take the half?" "No; not even a quarter; though I tell her that so much wealth will be a heavy burden to me. Eight hundred a year--that is all she will accept, and it is to be settled on her children. Eight hundred; it is a mere pittance." "Yes; but she and her daughters will live very comfortably on that; think how poor they have been; indeed, dear, I think you may be satisfied that you have done the right thing; and after all, your uncle wished you to have the money." "I do not care about it," with a stifled sigh. "We shall be awfully rich, Eva; but I suppose women like that sort of thing. I shall be able to buy you that diamond pendant now that you so admired."