He was a young man of fine personal appearance, and refined tastes. Without a profession, he employed his immense wealth in ministering to his taste for the arts. The only son of a man of fortune, educated to the habit of spending money without earning it, he had married about two years before, an exceedingly beautiful woman, the only daughter of a wealthy and aristocratic family. And far back in a nook of this imposing _suite_ of apartments, where the light of the chandelier is softened by the shadows of statue and marble pillar, sits this wife, a woman in the prime of early womanhood.--Her shape, at the same time tall, rounded, and commanding, is enveloped in a loose wrapper, which seems rather to float about her form, than to gird it closely. Her face is bathed in tears. As her husband approaches she rises and confronts him with a _blonde_ countenance, fair blue eyes and golden hair. That face, beaming with young loveliness, is shadowed with grief. "Must you go, indeed, my husband?"--and clad in that flowing robe, she rests her hands upon his shoulder, and looks tearfully into his face. His cloak falls and discloses his slight and graceful form. He removes his traveling cap, and his wife may freely gaze upon that dark-complexioned face, whose regular features, remind you of an Apollo cast in bronze. His dark eyes flash with clear light as she raises one hand, and places it upon his forehead, and twines her fingers among the curls of his jet-black hair. Take it all in all, it is an interesting picture, centered in that splendid room, where everything breathes luxury and wealth--the slender form of the young husband clad in black, contrasted with the imposing figure of the young wife, enveloped in drapery of flowing white. "I must go, wife. Kiss me."--She bent back his head and gazing upon him long and earnestly, suffered her lips to join his,--"I'll be back before Christmas." "You are sure that you must go?" she exclaimed, toying with the curls of his dark hair. "You saw the letter which I received from Boston. My poor brother lies at the point of death. I must see him, Joanna,--you know how it pains me to be absent from you, only for a day,--but I must go. I'll be back by Christmas morning." "Will you; indeed, though, Eugene?"--she wound her arms about his neck--"You know how drearily the time passes without you. O, how I shall count the hours until you return!" And at every word she smoothed his forehead with her hand, and touched his mouth with those lips which bloomed with the ripeness and purity of perfect womanhood. "I must go, Joanna,"--and convulsed at the thought of leaving this young wife, even for a day, the husband gathered her to his breast, and then seizing his cloak and carpet-bag, hurried from the room. His steps were heard in the hall without, and presently the sound of the closing door reached the ears of the young wife.