The opera, balls, parties innumerable, engrossed her time, but was she happy? Let us follow her awhile after her evening triumph. She had spent the evening at Mrs. Starr's, one of the gayest parties of the season. Magnificent dressing, the most costly viands of the table, the most fashionable band of music, scores of admirers, and strains of the most intoxicating flattery met her everywhere. Her triumph was complete. Was Madeline happy? To have looked at her bright young face beaming with smiles, to have listened to her musical laugh, and sparkling repartee, to have watched her light and airy motions in the graceful waltz, one would have pronounced her the gayest of the gay. But there was a depth in the heart of Madeline Hamilton which could not be filled by these empty vanities, a thirst for a better life, which could never be satisfied with this mere mirage in the pilgrimage of an immortal. Wearied and heart-sick, she enters her dressing-room, and seating herself, commences disrobing. Unbinding her luxuriant hair, she lays aside the glittering ornaments and the faded flowers; leaning her head upon her hands, she weeps over the emptiness of her daily life. Placing her jewels in a small casket, she opens a little box in her writing-desk; reverently she turns over the leaves of an old book, revealing branches of withered seaweed; and in another corner of the desk, a cluster of common shells. The sight of these simple things opens the flood-gates of her heart; and, pressing the sea-weed to her burning lips, she weeps in the anguish of her spirit. Memory is busy--back to the sea-shore, the Maple Lane School, the cemetery, the little cottage of the humble widow. The present is fading--she had had a distant view of the glittering world; she had longed for its pleasures; nearer and nearer had she approached the shining lake where she hoped to quench her thirst; but, stooping down to drink, she had found the world like the mirage in the burning sands of the desert, a mere illusion! a mighty cheat! O! for an hour of those early days! those simple childish pleasures! O! for the teachings of that young Mentor, who so wisely controlled the impetuosity of her high spirit, and tamed the wilfulness of her proud young heart. She had listened to the tones of flattery, until they had palled upon her ear, and sickened her heart; and for one approving, yea, even one kind reproving glance of the dark eye of Roland Bruce, she would have given all, and more than all that the world had ever given her. She recalls the holy lessons that had led her young heart to think of better things. She compares Roland's character with all that she had met in the gay world, and feels that was mere tinsel; his was pure and solid gold. She touches the simple weeds with fond, caressing fingers, and almost resolves to turn away from the gay, glittering throng. But alas! the friend of her youth is lost to her.