have seen Laura Edgar's fine eye flash and her red lips curl as she said, "I should not be an Edgar if I were not proud!" then with her tall, queenly form, one might have thought her "born for a coronet;" and indeed we had always called her "the countess" in our little gatherings. Her brother was like her in person, and I found also in heart, though he was not yet old enough to curb pleasure that he might indulge his pride. Beauty he worshipped; and when he came to pay his sister a visit in our secluded valley, he lingered away the summer month usually passed at Newport or Saratoga, charmed, as he averred, by the mountain scenery, but as it now proved by the softer loveliness of our favourite. I did not wish to join in what my aunt had said, but as I thought over all this, and recalled his proverbially unstable character-his youth, for he had scarcely attained his majority, I could not but acknowledge there was a cloud hidden in the present brightness of the horizon.

Then too, Sophie, though graceful and winning, knew nothing of the great world in which she now must mingle. Nothing of its forms, its restraints, and the cold, proud nature of the circle to which she would be introduced, where every word is measured ere spoken, each thought veiled for the sake of courtesy until it almost becomes deceit.

Poor Sophie!

Nearly three years had passed, and I too was a bride. Happy? Yes! "blessed beyond the limit of my wildest dreams!" and on my way to a new residence, I passed a few bright days in the great metropolis which was the home of Sophie Edgar, now long a wife. We had not met during that time, and of late our cor

respondence had been neglected, as both entered a round of new duties and pleasures.

The last strains of a beautiful overture were dying away through the vast dome of the crowded theatre, as I leaned forward eagerly, for a party entered a box near the one in which we were seated, and a familiar face was the brightest of that group. It was indeed familiar, though changed-so changed! No longer the timid, shrinking maiden, but a brilliant woman. Sophie was before me. There were gems flashing from her beautiful arms, and wreathed in the richly braided hair. The dress of dark velvet heightened by contrast a pure, glowing complexion; and her eyes—ay, there was the change! they were strangely lighted with a fearful brilliancy; and her full, red lips were wreathed scornfully, as she listened to the idle compliments of the tribe by which she was surrounded. At first I could scarce withdraw my gaze from her; but as the play went on, and increased in interest, then my friend was forgotten. It was the "Hunchback;" and as I traced the transformation of its heroine from a warm-hearted country maiden, to the cold, haughty woman of fashion, I glanced involuntarily to the group near me-there was so much of truth in the portrait. I was recognized; a brilliant colour flitted to her cheek; a start, a smothered exclamation; then that strange creature forced her eyes upon the stage, as if quite regardless of my presence.

"I called you-Clifford; and you called me-madam!

The words fell mournfully upon my ear, as the humbled and penitent Julia feels the bitterness of her own rash act. And Sophie-I might have been deceived, but at least I fancied that a look of agony passed over her face yes, I must have been

deceived, for as the curtain fell, her tone came gaily to my ear, as she addressed words of playful badinage to her companion.

As we pressed through the crowded lobby, I felt my hand grasped quickly; and turning, Sophie was beside me.

"Tell me where I can find you, Annie," said she, hurriedly, without one word of greeting.

I had scarce time to reply, ere the crowd swept forward, and we were again separated.

A strange, sad mood came over me, as I sat the next morning looking out upon the crowds that thronged Broadway; a lone foreboding of evil, such as I have often felt, and never that it has not proved a prophecy. Something whispered, "when next you look upon this busy scene, joy will have ended in mourning." I was fast yielding to tears, under the influence of that desolate emotion, when Sophie was announced. Nay, but for the sweet mouth, the liquid eyes, I never should have recognized my old schoolmate. The brilliant belle of the evening threw herself on the sofa beside me, and burying her face in her folded arms, burst into a passion of tears. As of old-for I had often soothed the young girl's sorrow -I drew her to my heart, but I could offer no word of comfort,-could only weep with her

Suddenly she threw aside my circling arm, and, starting to her feet, the rich mantle which enveloped her fell aside, revealing a figure so slight, that I started with wonder that aught earthly could be so fragile.

Her face, too, was wan and colourless in the morning light, save the deep flush of the hollow cheek; that, and the unearthly light of her full, gleaming eyes, betrayed a mournful secret.

"Look at me, Annie," she said; "look at your old friend; three years have wrought a wondrous change, have they not? Do

you remember our parting-the still, calm twilight-the melody from all around that went up on the evening air? And I, so pure—I was pure, Annie—so free from care; now I daily thank God that I am dying; dying," she murmured again, very bitterly.

"Sophie, do not speak so; you are too young, too good; what has pained and excited you this morning? come, tell me all, as in our old school-days; it will calm you.'

"Yes, I will tell you all-all, though it is known but to God and-my husband." She knelt beside me, and passing my arm about her waist, looked up with a searching, almost imploring gaze. said.

"Though I have suffered, I have never complained," she "What I say to you now is but a message; you must tell my poor mother, when I am gone, the fate of her darling. My mother loved me—all did at home, did they not? No one loves me here."

"Sophie," said I, startled at her vehemence, "do not tell me this; who could help loving you, my bird?"

"Do not call me that; it was his name for me once; and I do not like to hear it from other lips. You remember that I told you change would be death to me; even so it has proved. But I will be more calm. I met Harold Edgar, as you know. I was young-he so intelligent, so gentlemanly, so winning. He was the first who ever addressed me the first who told me I was beautiful. He did not say so, but his eyes, his attentions whispered it. So, Annie, I was flattered, interested; then I forgot myself in the delight I felt at his presence. I watched for his coming with a heart thrilling at every footstep; I counted the hours of his absence, for they pressed like years. Then he told me that he loved me, he prayed me to love him; how could I

refuse that request, when my whole being had unconsciously long. been bound up in his? Love you!' I murmured; it seemed to me like a dream, that he, so very beautiful, so manly, so warmhearted, could love one like myself.

"When we parted that night, I was in heart betrothed to him, though I waited until my father and mother had seen and approved my choice, ere I consented to be his wife. Approved, I said; my mother was flattered by his station, his wealth, his bearing. God is my witness, I thought but of himself, and the priceless treasure of his affection. My father did not seem quite pleased. You are both young,' he said; 'my child is ignorant of the world, its forms and influences. Are you sure you will not weary of her simplicity, or blush for her little knowledge of the society in which you mingle?'

"Harold looked as if he thought my father was beside himself. Ashamed of Sophie!' he answered, warmly. She has more natural grace than they all; she might be their teacher.'

"My father smiled at his enthusiasm, and I blushed deeply at his praise. At last father ceased to oppose Harold and my mother, but Philip was not so easily satisfied.

"It's all well enough now,' he would say, 'but wait until the novelty has worn off a little — till he gets back to his horses and his high company. I don't mean to say he doesn't love you, pet, for anybody that you loved couldn't help it. But it's not my sort of love. You'd better stay with us, than go among those city people, with their fine houses and cold hearts. You know old friends, but new ones you cannot trust.'

"So you see I was warned fully, but I would not listen. How could I dream of change? for he seemed so devoted to me, so miserable when away, so happy at my side. I grew selfish in my