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I HUSBAND AND WIFE; OR, Which was in the Wrong. A Story for Young Couples. feY V. F T. “He quieteth the earth by the south wind.” Sbe had just drawn np the Venetian blind, and thrown open the window—the lady whose roioe, soft and solemn, nttered these words. Sbe bad a face which 6tiited the voice, a face with thin, classic outlines, aDd large, aznre gray eyes, clear and steadfast, and a month whose physiognomy endorsed the eyes. It was large and full, yet the lips sat down so steadily to gether, yon would scarcely have imagined the beautiful varieties of expression there were in them. But there was something sad in the pale, pure face, something which made the gaz ?r feel that the great shadow and the greater glory were drawing nigh unto it. Alice Mayne was twenty-six years old at the time she looked out of her chamber window, that morning in the late May. The night had been frenzied with .winds and seething rains and the day had risen out of it gloriously, or vast arches of pearl, and the mists lifted their mighty pillars on the mountains, and the ‘soft south wind’ was a great cens6r waving through the air unto Gad the sweet incense of the earth. Alice Mayne was the only child of the Pres byterian minister of Westfield. Her mother had died of a hereditary heart disease when the girl had reached her fifteenth year, and Alice had inherited the fragile constitution of her parent. Parson Mayne was a good man, and dearly beloved of his parish. He was in person a thorough type cf the Puritan fathers, tall, state ly, imposing, and he hau, partly from constitn tional tendency, partly from habit, something of cold reserve in his manner; but every one knew that beneath the slightly frigid exterior, beats a heart full of running fountains of ten derness and love for all mankind. No one wondered that the old man fairly worshipped his fair child, Alice, for she was the last of seven, and the others W6re a household in Heaven. But as the girl stood at the parsonage window, looking out on the sweet face of the new-born day, the front gate was suddenly opened, and a small figure hurried hastily up the walk, and catching a glimpse of Alice, burst into the sit- ting-rocm without knocking. ‘Oh, Alice, Alice, do yon know what has happened?' The brown veil was thrown hastily back from the straw bonnet, and a face Dot beautiful, not handsome, but very pretty, looked up to the girl. It was full of rapid changes now, and the eyes, large and bright, and oftenest full of 6miles, were swollen as though they had wept hot, passionate tears. ‘Why, Delia, what does all this mean?' She evidently asked the question in quick alarm, and there came a sodden pallor about her mouth. Delia was too exoited to notice it •It means, Alice Mayne, that Harry Leeds has been false to me, in word and deed, and that I am no longer his wife. I am going home to papa and mamma this very afternoon.’ 'Oh, Delia, Delia!’ She fairly gasped out the words, with the pallor growing about her.mouth. ‘No wonder you say it, Alice, and so will the world, too, vUb it finds out bow I’v6 been self, deceived, ana abused, and insulted in my own ' > i house.’ Alice Mayne had by this time partly recov ered from the shock which Mrs. Leeds words had given her. ‘You are so excited, Delia, child, you don’t know what you are saving. Take ofl your bon net now—sit right down here, and tell me all that has happened.’ And she stioked the soft, brownish bands of hair that the wind had ruffled over the lair brow. •I’ll try to, Alice; but, you see I’m so com pletely overwhelmed by all I've passed through in the last twenty-four hours, that I can hardly give a rational a ;count of the matter. ‘But to commence somewhere. I've thought for the last six months, a change was coming over Harry, he’s been so cold, and petulant, and indifferent to my wishes; and hasn’t been in two nights of the week before eleven or twelve o’clock. •I’ve talked and questioned and pouted and cried over it, but I couldn’t get the least satis faction from the gentleman, only cross words and surly looks, so I just made up my mind that marrying was a great disappointment, any way, and must bear it as well as the rest of my sex. •But yesterday Betty came to me with a very lugubrious face and told me that ber sister, whose mistress lives next door to Mrs. West, had seen Mr. Leeds riding out twice during the last week with that lady. Just think of it! A woman I actually wouldn’t be seen in the street with, alter all the talk there’s been about her; and to have Harry Leeds leave his own poor wife at home to take that widow out riding 1 •Well, I questioned Betty awhile, and at last drew out the whole truth, that Harry was at Mrs. West’s at least three evenings out of the week, and that Mrs. Graham, (my girl’s sister’s mistress) had talked about it together, until they’d grown real exasperated, and said there was that fascinating, unprincipled Mrs. West, trying to get another man's afflictions from his wife, and it was a burning shame, and they did pity Mrs. Leeds from the bottom of their hearts. •Well, yon know, Alice, I was never a jealous wife, but no woman worthy cf the name could have borne this. I understood now what all those excuses of ‘clubs,’ and ‘engagements/ and ‘society meetings’ meant, and that they’d completely * blinded my eyes all this time. I never was so indignant in my life. I cried one moment, and the next I put on my bonn6t, and was just on the point of starting round to Mrs. West’s, and giving her one piece of my mind. ‘But I finally concluded to wait till Harry came to supper, but the gentleman didn’t arrive until near ten o’clock, and I had all this time to think about the matter. “Well, sir,’ was my opening salutation, as he came into the sitting-room, ‘have yon hal a pleasant evening with Mrs. West?’ •He started and changed color. ‘What do you mean about Mrs. West, Delia? I couldn t get Lome to-night, because I was deluged by some business of that miserable client of mine.’ •I believe that he spoke the troth this time, though of course 1 didn’t tell him so. I merely replied that as Mrs. West would probably be anxious on account of his absence, he had best call round there, and relieve her at once by explaining the circumstances which oooasioned ^•Oh Delia, Delia,’ broke in Alioe’s reproach ful voice, ‘that was not the way to meet your husband, to make him sorry for the wrong he hE ‘W^r*Alice Mayne,* with a flash from the bine eyes, ‘would yon have me endure such outrage without resenting it-sure y, I should have been less than woman, if 1 had. •Are veu sure of that, Delia? Doing this, might have been more than woman, without GO Thewords fell down softly on spirit of the little wile. the roused •Well, Alice, I never professed to be more than one, as you are; but Harry’s reply to me wee such a mixture of indifference and insult, that I eould not bare any more, I, who was the aggrieved party, too ! •I turned right upon him, and told him that so long as I lived under his roof, and bore his name, I would be treated with the respect and attention which a man owed to his wife, unfor tunate as I considered myselt in occupying that relation towards him,’ •You did not say that? •To be sure, and very much more like it. I was almost scared when I got through, Harry had grown so white, bat he answered: •Your threats, madam, do not in the least alarm me, and as to your remaining here that is a matter perfectly optional with yourself, perfectly indifferent to me One thing, how ever, is certain; so long as I pay for this roof, I shall maintain my own right under it, to go and come just when and where I please, and that I shall in no wise hold myself responsible to yon for any of my movements.’ •And he went out, slamming the door after him. That is the last I've seen of him, and the last I ever expect to.’ •You don’t mean to say he‘s run off? There was terrible alarm on tb9 questioner's face. ‘Ob. no;hecam6 in last night about twelve o'clock. I had retired, the most wretched of women,and of course I heard him, fori couldn‘t sleep, and be passed the night in the library. I wasn't down to breakfast tuis morning until after he was gone.' •And this is the end, Delia! 4 She said the words slow aiiil very mournfully, looking at the young wife. ‘The end of all this;—is that what you mean. Alice?* ‘I mean the end of that joyous bridal eve I remember seven yeais ago in the late May- bridal I looked upon as supremely smiled on of Heaven and earth. Do you remember it, Delia, and how we stole away from all the guests, ana walked np and down the garden in those great swathing bands of moinligkt, and bow you said to me, 'He is so hindsome, so noble, so gifted—oh, Alice, I can-t understand how he chose me above all the women iu the world?' •Don't talk of that time now, don't, Alice, or you'll drive me crazy! 4 There was a tremulous working of the lips. •Well. I won't, then, but of another, a day I saw Harry for th6 first time after Delia Hope had promised to be his wife. I remember the information had taken me quite by surprise, for you know that I had been at grandpa's most of the previous year, and knew nothing of what had transpired here anti! Harry wrote me so. On meeting him, my first words were—‘Oh, Harry you are sure you love her—sure you can make her happy?* •Love her, Alice! She.s the daintiest little an gel that ever folded her wings around a man's heart. If I don't make her happy, I deserve to be cursed of God and man!' ‘Did he say that? Did he say that?' asked Mrs. Leeds. And now the tears were struggling out from her thick, brown lashes. ‘Every word Delia; and now, as I said, this is the end,' ‘Well, it isn't my fault, Alice, I‘m sure. I‘ve loved Harry, and tried to make him happy, and if he hadn't said those things which have placed a great gulf between us ‘ •And whose words widened the gulf?* ‘Oh, Alice you don't know how it is to be stung to madness, as I was last night, by neg lect and contempt; by having your husband prefer the society of another woman to your self, • \ ' * I lie o,id3 impetuosity' hal gone obi oi ner tones now. ‘But, dear, have you always done your duty in this thing? Have you always been the bright sweet loving Delia Hope that he took to his heart and his home seven years ago?* ‘Perhaps not, Alice, but I‘va meant to do right. ADd then Harry's disappointed me in many particulars. He's not half so perfect as I thought he was; he's selfish and petulint. ‘ ‘But, Dear, have you in any way assisted him to reform his faults and weakness, or have yen reflected them? Is Harry Leeds abetter, strong er, truer man for these years you have walk ed together, and for your influence over him?’ The little wife's head drooped under the earn est, searching questions, and quick changes har ried over her cheeks. ‘No, Alice, I don’t believe he is a better man. I dare say it would have been well for us both if we had never looked in each other's faces.* ‘But if it be so, it is your fault, Delia. ‘On, Alice, not mine only. You are too hard. ‘ Sue spoke in a meek, pleading tone, and al together she was very unlike the roused, indig nant woman of a half hour before. ‘And now, • Alice went on, without heeding Mrs. Leeds* remonstrance, ‘because von have reflected Harry’s faults, because you have not soothed his irritation, and strengthened him where he was weakest, and not continued by the sweet, loving words and ways which first won his love, to retain it; and because, with social instincts and susceptible temperament, he has been drawn into the society of an art ful, attractive woman, you are now going to leave him with anger and recrimination, when you know doing this will probably be the man's ruin, soul and body.' ‘Oh, Alice?’ and a shudder went over the lit tle figure. •I only say your own words, Delia. Oil, how wiil you answer to God fur ibis day's work?’ ‘What in the world can I do, Alice—must I go home, and snbmit to neglect and abuse?' The tears were pouring down her cheeks, now, and she asked the question in a grieved, helpless tone, which must have touched any heart. Alice wound her arms round her friend. ‘I would have you do this, darling: Go home, and 6ndeavor to win back, by forbearance and forgiveness, by making yourself fair and lovely in word and deed before him, the lost tender ness of your husband,* ‘I will try, Alice.* ‘The Lord helping you. Delia. 1 ‘The Lord helping me,' She saic! the words in that humble, reverent tone which is the best prophcey of His doing this. Bat, ! alas! Theobawoter of neither hus band nor wife had been tried’ and disciplined, and when the time came which demanded on both sides something of self-conqaest, and for bearance, and generosity, each was found want ing. Perhaps there was equal blame on either side, for both had been accustomed to having all things subordinated to their whims, and both were unoonsoionsly selfish. It is the history of so many ill-starred mar riages. Each grew pettish, sullen, neglectful, and petty retort and recrimination succeeded, until there grew up a great coldness and indif ference between these two solemnly bound to gether in the blessed covenant of marriage. Then Harry Leeds’ young wife grew indiffer ent and exacting; and it was not strange that, with bis social temperament he sought the so ciety of agreeable and fascinating women, un til Delia certainly had cause to complain of his •Nonsense, Alice ; don't talk about its being buried with you. You must live to wear it many a year.’ She shook her head slow and mournfully, and it struck Delia that she looked strangely white, and she rose and went towards her. •Does anything ail you, Alice ?’ ‘Yes. She drew her hand over her eyes. ‘I can’t see you, Delia, and—oh, dear! I can’t breathe. Do lead me to the window.' In great alarm, Mrs. Leeds put her arm around her friend, but a quick spasm convulsed Alice's features, and her head dropped forward. ‘I am going, Delia. You will comfort poor papa—and you will take charge of all my things here? I was prepared for this. There is a paper in the drawer which will inform you of all to whom I have left remembrances. Good-bye, now, until we meet at home.’ Her head dropped lower as she faltered out neglect. And so, in blindness and folly they j the last words, another quick, light spasm, and had gone on, sowing broadcast th9ir seed for j the life of Alice Mayne went out—whither all the futures-sowing them in angry words, and sour glances, in mutual recrimination, or days of sullenuess, until these had suddenly blos somed and bore fruit. He started up and looked around him. Ho was lying ou the bed iu his own room, and then, as consciousness came slowly back to Harry Leeds, he groaud out sharply. Suddenly there dropped on his throbbing temples a hand cool and sotVitjj^.i'iy that has slept ali night cn still currents ot,water. •Harry, my husband, cm 1 do anything for you?’ He look'd np quickly, and saw ber sweet face bending over him. It was very pale, but full of sorrowful tenderness and pity. Harry Leeds covered his face with his hands: ‘Oh, Delia, do you know all?’ he faltered. ‘Everything, my darling;* and here the little, fluttering hand stole about his neck. ‘And you will look at ms—speak to me again?' ‘Look at you! Speak to you ! Oh, Harry, God knows I wonid gladly give up my life this minute to save you !' And Harry raised himself up, and drew down that fair face, drenched with tears, to his heart, and his own fell fast on the bright hair he stroked so tenderly. ‘Tell me all about it, Delia. • •It was last night about ten o’clock, and I sat in the parlor all alone waiting for your return and oh, Harry, I had been down into my heart, holding soleina counsel with it all day, and was longing so for vonr footsteps, that I might rash np and run to you, and tell you I was sorry for all the foolish and angry words I had spoken in the morjjjng, and patting my arms around your neck, beg you to take me back, for I loved you better than all the world beside. Suddenly, as I sat listening breathless, there was a hurried pull at tfi#4»dVand I rushed to the door, feel ing oertain that something had happened. They held you there, those two men, and oh ! Harry, as the light fell on you, I thought ' She could not finish the sentenoe; she only clung to him and shuddered. And the young husband knew then that his wife loved him, as he had not known it in the days of their be trothal, or in the j >y and peace of their early marriage. And then, laying baek for faintness on the pillows, Harry Leeds laid his inmost soul bare to the heart of his wife; and if shame or fear made him falter sometimes in the painfal relation, the soft, flattering fingers, which kept up their motion like a flock of white birds throngh his hair, gave him courage to pro ceed. He had gone out from Delia's stinging, angry words that morning, a wretched, desperate man. The sullen Jjours went over him in his office, in some d erb^nfT&^colffse "ot*'iic T fJlff •‘K.MLJf? after dispatching his business, he went into a saloon, and attempted to drown mind and con science in a glass of brandy. The young law yer had one of those highly-wrought, nervous organizations, which stimulants at once excited to frenzy, and he remembered nothing subse quent to his dashing madly out of the saloon; but late in the evening he had bean brought home by two of his neighbors, who had rescued him from a miserable drunken broil in the lower part of tha city, with fearful gashes in his fore head, and bruises on his cheeks; and the great anguish of that moment had cleft ifo way to the living wateri in the soul of Delia Leeds. The terrible remirse of the time when her soul oscil lated betwetn hope and fear for her husband s life, had accomplished a blessed work for the young wife, and she received the information that Harry.lived, as a message from God, or as one takes-'ttck from the arms of death the be loved. Hart)’ was not so much injured as at first appeared. He was faint from loss of blood, and afterwrads juite stupid from the effects of the spirits whim he had taken; so it was not until the late mining that he had awakened to con sciousness with handkerchiefs bound about his head, and is bruised, swollen cheeks present ing a mos repellant spectacle to all but the loving, sle >less eyes which had watobed him throughou the night. And lying* there, with her arms illowiug his head, Mr. and Mrs. Leeds rem rd the vows of their betrothal; and Delia told > him of her visit to Alice Mayne, and how s s had returned from the parsonage, resolving I be once more the angel of Harry’s life. j •Oh, Del, I am willing to endure all this pain and lortification, now it has brought back my little ike to her old place in mr heart.’ ‘And H*y, you didn’t love her as you did me, did yp?’ said Delia, with soft blushes flat tering uppto her cheeks. ‘Did yoI fear that for a moment, my dear child?' Id he drew down her face fondly to his lips, id she was satisfied. lives must go, under the black arches, over the still waters of the river of Death. was just Three weeks had passed, and, one day, with aching heart, and still tears dropping down her oheeks, Mrs. Leeds stood again in the west chamber of the little parsonage—the chamber that had once been Alice Mayne’s, and that she had exchanged now tor chambers whose walls were of agate, and whose columns were of pearl and whose windows looked out on fair gardens, with fountains of sweet, flowing waters, locked in by the shining hills of eternity. Sue was examining, in accordance with her friend's dy ing wish, the drawers where were carefully laid nway her little wealth of treasures, graceful gifts, and tokens, which women usually gather about them. In one corner was a small glass box, containing some letters of Harry’s, written before his marriage—warm, free, gossipy letters, such as a brother might write to a loviug sister. But there was one of a later date, containing only these words, in Harry's handwriting : ‘Alice, Dear Sister :—Rejoice with me, for last night Delia Hope promised to be my wife.’ And, underneath, in small, graceful chirogra- phy, ran a line—‘Oh, God, temper thou the wind to thy shorn lamb.’ The paper dropped from Delia’s hand, for tbes9 words sprung open a door closed and bolted in Alice's heart. She knew now why her friend had turned from all who would have approached her with that love which is so sweet to the heart of woman, saying she had nothing but friendship to offer any man. It was not strange that, brought a.s they were together, Alioe Mayne's heart had recognized the charm of Harry Leeds’ presence ; and his wife felt almost like a guilty thing—as though she had claimed the right of another, and that her husband belonged rather to Alice Mayne than to herself. And then there came over her hashed soul the swell of holier thoughts. Was it not to Alice that she owed the joy and peace of ber wedded life? And, kneeling down, the lady thanked God with many tears ; and this knowledge that oame to the husband and wife when Alice was angel in Heaven, was a holy sacrament, keeping them, by the help of God, from temp tation and delivering them from evil. DELAMERE; —OK— Gorinne the Sphynx BY PAUL C. LE SUEUR. CHAPTER XIII. IUC COtutj jok.t to, J the family were seated one evening around the supper-table. Bose brought forth an oil cloth mail bag which was yet unopened, having just come from the offiee. She seized it and dived into its con tents, for like the balance of her sex she took considerable interest in the mail. ‘An invitation, I see !‘ she exclaimed, holding up to the light for inspection a tiuted missive which was the first thing to reward her search. This, after ascertaining that the remaining con tents of the bag consisted only of pamphlets, circulars and newspapers, sue proceeded to open and read. Oh, m>.ma,‘ she adled, with some approach to animation. -George Eiluner is to bo mar ried on the 18;h at Mr. Eminer's ! Here is an invitation to Mr. Delamere and lamily. ‘ ‘Dare's one letter on de flo‘, ‘ said Bose. ‘Fell down j ns’ now, ’ •Pick it up, ape, and hand it here then.’re plied Corinne. Bose somnolently obeyed. ‘Humph ! one for you'too, Eryc,’ she said, ex amining the handwriting on the back of the en velope, ‘from somebody terribly anxious for your aware that she was handsome, thinking so myself,’ They laughed at the naivete of ber reply, and then she begged Lryo to let her drive some as she was anxious to learn how. He put the lines into her hands, but she soon gave them back to him, saying she was afraid to attempt to pass a vehicle which sbe Baw ahead comiDg toward them. He looked where she pointed and saw that the person approaching was Harry Wilmot. •Is he not driving very fast?' asked Miss Devon. ‘He seems to be coming up pretty rapidly,’ answered Eryc, withdrawing to one side of tha road in order to prevent a collision. He had scarcely done so before the new comer was bt- side him. The latter drove a pair of large, coal- black horses, panting and flecked with foam. It was soon evident that he had been drinking. At first he was about to pass them, but as he came opposite to where they were, he saw and recognized them and pulled hard upon the reins. The nettled animals reared and plunged at being so suddenly checked, and would have broken away but for the strong hold upon them, ‘He has come for you, I suppose,’ said Eryo to Mis Devon. ‘Oj, I dare not go with him,’ she replied, in a whisper. Eryc, knowing that Harry had come for his companion, said to him without preliminary: ‘Miss Devon says she cannot go with you, Harry; she is afraid of your horses,’ •Gentle as lambs,’ replied Mr. Wilmot. 'Look how pensive they are. Come, Vesta, we'Ji have a two miles dash of it now.’ ‘Not now, Mr. Wilmot—I cannot go with you now.’ said Miss Devon in a voice far different from that in which she had been speaking be fore. Eryc looked at the horses. Tiisy were toss ing their heads and flinging bits of foam from their mouths. He saw that there was some dan ger in them, and endeavored to persuade Harry to leave Miss Devon with him. After some reas oning, the latter reluctantly consented. ‘Well, curse it, give me the road then,’ he said with angry disappointment. He turned his ho Bn short around, nearly upsettii g the baggy as he did so, and dished ofl at the same furious rate at which he had driven up. ‘They are running away, are they not ?’ asked Miss Devon, anxiously. ‘No,’ said Eryc. But apprehensive of some accident himself he drove forward more rapid ly* They all reached Mr. Ethmer’s, however, without any serious accident. The circle in which Eryc found himself when all the guests arrived, was to the last degree, high-bred. It was the representative of the wealth and aristccraoy of the country and of the cities around—rich merchants with their families, the friends of the bridegroom and the bride, came for a brief respite from the toil and bustle of the towns—a sprinkling of lawyers and editors who deemed it an Louor as well as a pleasure, to be invited to spend with a choice, small number of friends, a night in tha country at the house of Mr. Ethmer, the wealthy stock holder. Altogether the guests were selected with that shrewd regard to worldly position which seems to be a second nature with some men, and all wko had not on the wedding gar ment of gold, remained exclusively unbidden. For the coming guests the folding doors of the great parlor were thrown open, forming a capacious ball-room, and the music furnished for the occasion was of the approved style and execution. Eryc was presented with dne ceremony to the bride and bridegroom who had been made one before his arrival. As these, however, have no furcher part in this narrative, it will be sufficient to say just here that the former was modest, the latter handsome, affa ble and courteous. It uad beefi for some time whispered by these who professed to see things in a different and clearer light from anybody else, that the ‘old gentleman’ would do some thing handsome for his young kinsman — s<>t him up ‘swimming-like’ in the world: but oth- eis fully as wise, and as well versed in all that was passing in other men’s minds and all that the future was pregnant with, slowly shook their sapient heads, and smiled, and pointed to . E-hmer's well-known lack of impulsiveness in such affairs. In the course of time, however —of a very short time—in fact ct an hour per haps—it came out, as all things like thereto will come out, that alter the congratulations had been said, the aforesaid old gentleman had been seen to place in the hands of his rnwly mar ried nephew a certain document which purport ed no less than the transference to him (said nephew) cl a snug bit of property which had been recently and mysteriously undergoing repairs, as it tor occupants. Such a piece cf munificence was the talk of the entire community for a month and a day. and some asked wonderingly, V nat next. Others said that age was teliing Harry Leeds was an orphan, and he had been the only pet and idol of his grandmother, and consequently a spoiled child. He had naturally a very fine character; he was talented, social, fascinating, and perhaps these qualities, which everybody so admired and loved, were the rocks on which there was the greatest danger of his character's being wrecked. At the age of seventeen, he had passed a year at the parsonage, studying Latin with Parson Mayne, and the generous, noble-hearted boy had won the affection of the household, and a brother and sister intimacy had always existed between him and Alice. Harry Leeds entered college, and soon after he had finished his professional studies, he be came suddenly enamored of pretty little Delia Hope, the only daughter of a physician in an adjoining village. Delia, like himself, waaa spoiled child, but with a warm, impulsive, im pressive nature, though much indulgence had made her selfish and exacting. The two were married under peculiarly favorable auspices. Harry Leeds was rapidly rising in his profes sion. The families ot both parties were in most comfortable circumstances, and the beautiful cot tage home to which tne young lawyer took his fair little bride had every adornment which wealth and taste coaid bestow upon it. ‘Then fn and Harry are happy, now, Delia ?’ •On, sejery happy, Alice, and we owe it ali to you, i it was your words that morning which n" sent me down into the silent places of my so|to take counsel with my life.’" And there we| tears in the eyes of the littie wife. ’ She sab her friend’s chamber that June af ternoon laid flecks of sunshine and light, . woodlauj breezes coming in from the open window^ Alice had not been well for a week or two, irceiy able to leave her chamber, and that oh pallor had settled heavier about her lips ler lips that still wore their sweet, patient iile. ‘It courts me, darling, to hear you say those wfls, more than you can divine. They are suwords as I should like to carry down into thmlley of the shadow of death, feeling that mjfe here hadn't been altogether in vain.’ ‘Youlfein vain? Oh, Alice, was there ever a womi life so strewn with pure, and good, and noj deeds as yours has been ?’ She fed up her white hands deprecatingly. ‘Don-oh, don’t, Delia! I don’t deserve it.’ •Yesxu do, too. You ought to have heard what J*y said of you last night. Positively, if it hmeen any one else, I should have been jealoufcnd see here, Alice, this is our mutual gift, itemory, of—you understand.’ And s laid a small pearl jewel-ease on ber friend lap. Alioe took it up eagerly, and openc*. A beautifully executed locket and chatete flashed up to her from the snowy cushit She touched the spring, and the case Aback, revealing two exquisite daguer- reotyjikenessea of Harry and his wife. Ohplia!' t over, dear, and look on the outside.’ id the dainty carving of the case, the :—‘To Our Sister Alice.’ darling, I should like to have this th me.’ appearance on that all-important night, I sup pose. It is a woman’s writing. I do wondc-r if it is Diana's ! ‘Let me see it,’ said Eryc, while the hot blood rushed joyously to his cheek. ‘But no,’ continued Gorinne without heeding his request; ‘Diana would hardly take the trouble to back an extra envelope jus: for voar sake, when one would have been sufficient for us all. Aud yet it must be her handwriting too. She tossed the missive over to him. He glanced at it carelessly. How well he knew that deli cate chirography I With an air of indifference he put the invitation in his pocket. But when be was alone in his room that night, poor, siliy youth, he pressed it rapturously to his lips again and again. Now, however, by way of concealing what he felt, he remarked that he had never seen either Mr. Ethmer junior, or Lis future bride. .‘Oh, George is one of those idle young men with a wnite hand and a pretty face, that girls go crazy over,’ said Corinne, with considerable _ sarcasm, ‘and has no property m this world- j toMis's D^on, peVoleb^to e ^ a ? ed educall:m ***** a “P le stock ! <*«nm his frolicsome exhibitions in' proportion' 1 his engagement became more certainly act Mia? Devon was condemned in the who on the old man, and that be was r dapsing in to second childhood; or that his brain was soften ing. Ibis theoiy however was exploded by aome one who stoutly argued that to whatever r aD ‘* 8 , br( ‘ in mi « ht so ften, or however childish he might become, there was not the least slackening of his hold upon, or desire for the universal commodity of exchange ’ *"7 Wilmot after foiling to prevail upon Miss Devon to ride with him felt an inclination to be angry both with her and with Eryc, but he had not been drinking too deeply to* readly see the absurdity of such a thing, and one of ikt first acts he did after arriving at Mr. Ea rner's was to go to the cellar (for he was as much at home there as he was anywhere else) and open a bottle of wine and freely imbibe of its contents. Thus inspirited, as he expressed himseli, he proceeded to the parlor, and joined m he dance. Though Harry was considered a httie wild, he was also considered a goodca'eh xor slight irregularities are very easily orerlook- ed in men of means. As soon as it had been noised about, however, that he was of impudence. She intended a good portion of this satire for credited - _ , that is only tnree days off. We will ali go, as a matter of course, I presume, borne of you will have to go in the cabriolet. We must start soon for I can’t bear to travel alter dark.’ •Is that fiat?’ asked Eryc. •That's flat,’ returned Corinne, tartly. ‘Ihen I shall take Miss Devon myself,’ said ‘that is, if she will accept of my escort.* Miss Devon smiled her consent. Corinne now ® n 8 a ged her mother in a lengthy discussion as to what dress it would be best to wear, and Mr Delamere entered into a lecture upon marriage m general, laying it down as a maxim, never to be departed from, that all men should marry while very young, inasmuch as it begets habits of industry, prudence and economy which they would never acquire were they to live single to a confirmed old bachelorhood. . tfi® course of revolving time the eventful eighteenth arrived, a calm and merry day bright with the splendors ofan uu clouded sky and joyous with the gay mnsio of song-birds in the. grove. To enjoy its evening beauties Eryc and Miss Devon Bet out from Delamere long before the rest of the family were readv, intend ing to drive slowly all the way. The former looked unusually well and the latter very plain ly intimated as much to her. T cannot help believing you,’ archly answer ed Miss Devon, who, without vanity, was well This report might be true and might not be true, and even if true, not necessarily continue so. A little quarrel, or unkind word'might vet undo it all, and Mr. Wilmot would be fre6 ogai- as in all probability he soon would be, iu^’. much as he had been entrapped into the thins Poor Miss Devon! with just beauty enough to arouse jealousy, and sensitiveness enough to feel keenly every petty stab ot malice or revenge how these fell whispers stung her generous’ open heart! ’ •May I have the pleasure of dancing the next set with you, Vesta.*" asked Harrv un steadily approaching her, as, with her partner during an interval of the dance, she was seat ed at a bay window, and shut out from the ob servation of others by the drawn curtains She hesitated a moment and then firmiy replied • No, Mr Wilmot, you have been drinking too much. You cannot stand steadily upon the You don t approve of my conduct then?’ said Harry in astonishment He was so far inebria i- ed as to be unable to articulate distinctly fll “w*. ap ?,VT 0f 8uch ’^egnlarities as thestf Mr. Wilmot?’ she asked. •Irregularities?’ repeated Mr. Wilmot. with considerable merriment and difficulty. ‘This i what i call regularity, Y T esta—regular thing, yot iiuow, do it on every ‘oa3ioa. But let’s inn Continued on 6th page.