been as frequent as ever, as glowing with affection; but hers—they had certainly become fewer and colder. She had excused herself for not writing oftener, or at greater length, by the constant round of engagements in which she lived, and promised him ample details of what she called her adventures on her return. But were these assurances capable of satisfying the quick sense of a genuine lover? She knew that they had not been so. Dr. Leroy had complained, though in the gentlest and kindest manner, that the gaieties and friends of London seemed to have utterly eclipsed the sober life and friends of the country. Her mother had just now written that she was afraid Millicent had not been very attentive to Dr. Leroy, who seemed out of spirits, and who confessed that he seldom heard from her. All her sins rushed over her memory and conscience. She hastened away to her bedroom: opened the drawer in which she kept the letters of her family and of Frank Leroy, and saw to her shame that there were many of his letters that she had scarcely read, many that she had never answered—some, actually with their seals unbroken. She sank down in a chair, and sat long motionless as in a trance. But in that outwardly trance-like state, her mind was in full and fiercest activity. She asked herself whether then such a change had really taken place in her. Whether she was prepared to abandon an ardent lover, a noble-spirited man, and to attach herself to a person of but yesterday’s acquaintance? Could she really be so fickle! She wished to break the spell of such strange enchantment, and seized pen and paper, and wrote a long letter to Dr. Leroy—but on reading it over, she was terrified to perceive that it was but words, words, words—the old life and love did not exist in it. It was like the dead shell of the chrysalis; the winged Psyche of love had flown—whither? Ah! too well she could follow and find it. The bell for dinner rang, and she hurried down-stairs to take her part in the conversation as best she might. Every one observed her silence, her absence of mind, her want of interest in what was passing—and asked whether she was unwell, or had received bad news. To plead indisposition would have been to bring immediate attentions of the most perplexing kind upon her. She had no ill-tidings to report, and could only excuse herself by saying that she thought she was a little fatigued. This enabled her to retire early, and she sat down and wrote a letter to her mother, begging to be forgiven for the apparent neglect to herself and Dr. Leroy, but that the bustle of London, and its hurrying stream of engagements she thought had turned her head. Ah! poor thing! it would have been well had this been all, but they had turned something more serious—her heart!