affection for him-it absorbed all other love, all other friendship. His image came between me and my God. We were married. I need not tell you, who are now so blessed, the happiness of the long, long summer ramble that we made, lingering, as fancy prompted, among the beautiful valleys and by the silver lakes of dear New England. Autumn came, and I passed a week at my own home ere going to my husband's. How I smiled at Philip's fears! Harold, too, jested at his wise advice; but the time was not yet come. I had received a costly gift from Mrs. Edgar, another from Harold's sister, just after my marriage; they came with a letter of congratulation, which seemed cold and formal; but I knew Laura Edgar, and you, too, Annie, remember how haughty she was: so I was not surprised, and listened in blind confidence to my husband's assurances that all his friends would be mine.

"You know my natural timidity and shrinking from strange associations. I came here expecting to be met as a sister and child. I was welcomed with frigid politeness, and the love which had been rising in my heart was utterly crushed. For a time I was wilfully blind to the truth which would rise before me. I knew at length that I was considered as an intruder not only in my husband's family, but also in the haughty and aristocratic circle they drew around them. They were ever courteous to me-coldly, rigidly so; but my heart was chilled, my life daily embittered by the knowledge that Harold's marriage was freely spoken of as a mesalliance. And Harold, how could he but know this? I cannot blame him that he became less fond that he was drawn away from one whom others regarded coldly. He had been accustomed to consider the opinion of that clique as law from his earliest youth. Though at first he clung to me

perhaps more closely, for the reason that others avoided me, he was young, you know, Annie, and easily swayed by strong influences. It was perhaps my fault, in a great measure, that he was so often away from me; for I childishly refused to mingle with those who I knew but suffered my society, and withdrew from all to cherish an upspringing regret at my hasty rejection of childhood's love and sympathy.

"My husband's coldness toward me did not arise at once; he struggled against it, I am sure. But how could he devote himself to my solitary hours? how could he but be vexed that I would not go into the world—his world? At first I did not reproach him I have never reproached him in words-by being sad in his presence. I tried to interest him more than ever, but when I knew that my society grew irksome, I ceased to caress or seek for caresses; though oftentimes, when he has coldly bid me farewell - for days, sometimes weeks he was absent-I could have knelt at his feet with the wild idolatry which sprang to my lips, praying him to love me as of old. I would have been his slave, had he thought me unworthy to be his wife-his humble slave, so that I might live in his presence, and sometimes see the sunlight of his smile. This is but the truth-the happiness of days sprang from a kiss once given with a gleam of his former affection a smile of the old love would make me weep like a child, and in my solitude, recalling that glance, my whole frame has trembled with thrilling joy.

At home they have never known that he was ever less devoted than at first. I have seen them but once since that first happy visit, and then we were both actors, for I prayed him to spare me that trial -to let them be deceived with the thought their evil

forebodings were folly; but alas, I felt too keenly, each moment, that they were fully realized.

At length I made a desperate resolve that I would become a leader in the circle that had despised me. I knew that I had talent; grace and ease I could acquire; I had grown more beautiful in my seclusion. I do not say this vainly; I debated all calmly, and weighed it but as a means of my woman's revenge. It is just a year since I threw aside the timidity and coldness of my manner. I mingled in society-shaped my deeds, my words to their hollow forms. None wondered more than Harold at the change; and at first, when he saw me flattered and sought forfor I succeeded in that-I was playing for a desperate stake, my husband's love, and it gave me strength — he seemed disposed to join in the homage so freely offered. Then-shall I whisper it even to you? — he grew jealous of the butterflies that hovered constantly about me; he did not know that I would gladly have turned from all to have rested in his confidence and love; that one word of praise from his lips was far dearer than all offered homage. He thought my nature perverted-my heart changed. And I was proud-proud in my misery. I scorned to explainI felt that he should have known my motives better - that I sought the stamp of their approval only that he deemed it necessary.

You saw last night what my life has become—so day after day passes; cold formality at home-home!-and triumphs which I despise when abroad. But I am wearing out, Annie, fast, fast. Put your hand upon my heart closer-there-can you count its throbbings? It is often thus; and again all pulsation will seem to cease. It will be silent enough soon."

"Sophie! Sophie! do not speak so bitterly

"You deceive yourself—you have done wrong. There are many bright days for you, darling. Your husband cannot be heartless -you will win him yet."

"Heartless! did you dare to say my husband was heartless? No, no! he should have wedded one in his own sphere; the dove, you remember, in the old Latin fable, could not soar to the eagle's nest, even though supported by his stronger pinion. The fluttering wings broke the feeble heart. How happy we were, sitting in the dim wood and reading line by line that simple tale! Little did I dream it would be my fate."

She had sunk quite at my feet ere her story ended, and the velvet folds of her mantle formed the cushion on which she rested. Poor crushed flower crouching there in very hopelessness! her thin hands tightly clasped, till the jewels, which mocked their paleness, seemed almost buried in the slender fingers. Her curls were dishevelled, yet soft and light, and they lay about her face caressingly, as the poor heart's rapid pulse had sent a crimson glow to the lips and to the cheeks. Never had I seen her more beautiful—so wildly brilliant were those large, full eyes so graceful that fragile form.

There was a well-known step upon the stairs; I started, and Sophie rose, hastily gathering the rich drapery around her. "Come to me very soon before you leave to-morrow I shall

be at liberty"-and she glided from the room. I saw her enter the costly equipage that had waited so long for its mistress; the liveried servant bowed low, the noble steeds sprang forward, and in a moment had borne her from my sight.

Two days had passed; a violent storm of driving rain and sleet prevented my fulfilling out-door engagements; and as the

clouds parted on the morning of the third, my first impulse was to return Sophie's call.

"The carriage is waiting, madam," said the servant, as he handed me a note. It was without an envelope; the address, in a hand I had never seen before, was traced so hurriedly as to be scarcely legible. The date was two days previous length I deciphered the nervous and blotted scrawl.

and at

"Come to me, Annie, if you can. I am not well to-day; perhaps the time I have longed for has arrived. My heart throbs so wildly that I can scarce guide the pen, and my hand is so weak that".

Underneath was a single line, still more illegible, in the same hand as the address.

"You were once my poor Sophie's friend come to her now. God knows she needs friends! I, who have killed her, say it. EDGAR."

“What can this mean? Why was the note not delivered yesterday? Order the carriage directly," I almost gasped. Forgetful of time or place, I saw nothing of the crowd as we dashed through Broadway; the din of labour and pleasure arose around me unheeded; the cessation of the rapid speed alone aroused me as we reached Waverley Place. I could scarce believe it, yet it was even so; the closed shutters, the funeral crape fluttering and eddying in the bleak wind from the door of the lordly mansion upon whose threshold I stood, revealed, without a word, the terrible truth. I was ushered into the dark and silent rooms, whose costly furniture and glowing carpets seemed but a mockery. The veiled mirrors gave back no reflection the cautious tread of the servants, no echo. Oh! the terror, the chilling apathy which came over my heart as I sat there listening