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in conversation, with a !scurf overflowing with kindly (feelings, and a head filled with noble eentinicnts and independent thought; that of Miss Eustace, because he had to judge her by lier countenance, as she was extremely retir ing and taciturn when lie was present. Her face, however, was no very dull study ; for of; her, if of any one, it might perhaps have teen j said — a her body thoughtand occasionally, j wh.en he met her eye, there was a flash across ! iiis mentorv of something lie had long before j seen, or felt, or dreamed; an undefinahle sen-1 sation of pie .sure, but too evanescent to be ! caught or retained. , “ 1 Tow do you like Susan’s guests. Horace ? Mr. Atkins inquired one day, after Mr. Ciiaun cey had seen them a number of times. “How ami to form an opinion of Miss Eustace!” asked Mr. Chauncev. “ She indeed looks very much alive, hut never utters a word when she can avoid it.” “How!” said Mr. Atkins, “lhave never discovered that she is not as conversable and entertaing as Augusta, and far more plavful.” “Indeed!” said Mr. Chaunccy. “Hut it has certainly not been so when I have met them. I think Miss Leigh peculiarly brilliant and pleas ing in conversation. She appears to be a fine —a noble girl.” “ They are both fine. noVe girls,” said Mr. Atkins. “It is not every day that we meet tiiose who are equally so.” Mr. Atkins had not often been at home when his friend was at his house, but Mr. Cii.auncey’s remark led him to notice Miss Eustace partic ularly whenever he witnessed them succeeding interviews. One evening Mr. Chaunccy was with them, and Mr. Atkins chanced to be seat ed a little apart from his wife, her cousin, and Mr. Chauncev, who were, as usual, in the full tide of conversation, when Miss Eustace, on rising to leave the room, passed near him. He -caught her hand, and drawing her toward him, said, in a low tone— “ Where is vour vo ce this evening Abbv ? ' “My voice!” said Miss Eustace. “O, lam glad you have not lost it—hut why have you not spoken for these two hours ? ' “ And have I not?” asked Miss Eustace. “Scarcely,” answered Mr. Atkins. “Then I suppose it was because 1 had noth ing to say,” sud the : miliug girl. “ But you are not usually so silent,” remark ed Mr. Atkins. “Perhaps it would be better if I were. But truly, though you may doubt it, there arc time wlien I had much rather listen than talk.” “ Especial:v when my friend Horacejs ex erting his colloqual powers 1 hey ?” “ Just as you please, sir,” said Miss Eu dace, again sm’iiug but with some little appearance of embnrrasment, and withdrawing her hand, she left the room. Mr. Chaunccy did profit by the invitation of Mrs. Atkins, to visit her frequently. Miss Eustace interested him. He loved, when not too much engrossed in conversation himself, to watch the bright, the cheerful, the intellectual, theever varying! xore-sion of her countenance. Her evc-s seemed fountains of light, and love, and happiness: and the dimples about her mouth and checks, the very abode of joy and content. There was something about her to soothe and exhilerate at the same time. But Miss Leigh soon awakened in him a deeper, a more engrossing interest. Her talents, which were neither concealed nor displayed, comman ded his admiration; her compassionate'feel ings and elevated principles won his esteem ; so that scarcely three weeks had elapsed from the commencement of his acquaintance with her, ere lie was more sedulously aiming to learn bow lie might render himself acceptable to her, than to ascertain whether the indispensi'le quality for a good wife, was a component part of her character. One fine morning, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins, Mr. Chaunccy, and the young ladies, were to go out oil horseback. The three former were ready and waiting in the parlor, when the two latter came from their chamber. “You have very becoming riding-caps, young ladies,” said Mr. Atkins, “but 1 think neither of you have put them on quite right. Come, Abby.” said he playfully, “let me adjust yours more to rny mind.” “ O, do,” said Miss Eustace, holding up her blooming face ; “ make me look as pretty as you possibly can.” “There!” said Mr. Atkins, after drawing the cap a litt’e more on one side; “ I will leave it to the company if that is not a great im provement. Now, Augusta, let me try rny hand at yours.” “ No, thank you, sir,” said Miss Leigh, ele vating her head, while her color was somewhat heightcr.e 1 —*• I will wear my cap according to my own taste this-morning, if you please.” “O, 1 teg a thousand pardons for my pre sumption,” said Mr. Atkins—“ Your taste is much more correct than mine—l really Leg your pardon.” Miss Leigh made no rep'y, but gave her hand to Mr. Chauncev, who was waiting to re ceive it, and the little party immediately started on their excursion. For awhile they all were rather silent, and seemed entirely engrossed in the management of their horses; but the weather was charming—their exercisft exhilcr ating ; and ere long each one was cnoiving a fine flow of spirits. They role several miles, and on their return home encountered a com pany of Irish jieo Imen, women and children. They looked way-worn and weary ; and the faces of some of the children even wore an ex pression of anxiety and depresss’on, as if they felt all the force of their frienillossncss, the helpiessr.c*!* of bt, -angers in a strange land.— Mr. Atkins and his friends stopped to talk with' them a few minutes, and bestow charity accord ing to eacli one’s ability or inclination, and then rode on. “O, Mr. Chaunccy,” said Miss Leigh, in a low tone, after riding a little way in silence, ‘ what pitiable objects those people were ! As good by nature, and undoubtedly, some of them ; t least, much more amiable in disposition than myself-—win is it that there is so vast a differ ence in our lots ? Ilow is it that I can ever te ungrateful or perverse, while thus distinguished by unnumbered and undeserved blessings!” her tone was that of the deepest sympathy and humility, and her eyes were swimming in tears; as she spoke. Had Mr. Chaunccy littered the thought of Ids lieu rt, he would have told her, that she was the most amialde, the most lovely, the most de serving among the whole family of man ! And his eyes did utter it. so far as eyes are capable of utterance, though his tongue only spoke of the vast disparity that Infinite Wisdom sees best to make in the outward circumstances of h s creatures in tin's wor'd. When about tak ing leave at Mr. Atkins’door, Mr. Chauncey received a pressing invitation to return to take tea, and spend the evening—an invitation he proni( tlv accepted. At an early hour in the evening, Mr. Chaun cev was seated amid his circle of friends in Mrs. Atk'ns’ parlor. Before tea was brought in, and while at the table, conversation flowed ns usual; and it was conversation :—the exer cise of the mind; the collision of wit; the in e change of opinion : the expression of seti uient: and not the idle and frivolous chit-chat nor the oftentimes mischievous and envenomed go sip, that is sometimes so miscalled. After the ;ea-t!iing.s were removed, and the ladies and settled themselves to their several employ ment ;,Mr. Chauncey, at the request of Mrs. Atkins, read aloud the test of Mrs. Opie’s tales, namely, “White Lies.” Mr. Chaun • ev’s voice was rich and mellow, h's intonation’s aid ( mphnsos perfect; so that whatever lie read produced tiie full effect that the author intend- 'd. His present little auditory paid him the compliment of the most profound silence, till c finished the tale, and closed the volume. “ That is a faultless story, ” said Mr. At kins. “Do you not think so ? ” All, except Miss Eustace, expressed their approbation of i:i warm terms. She remained silent. “What says my little Abbv to it?” said Mr. Atkins. “Do you dissent from the com mon opinion ?” “ 1 think it highly interesting and instructive,” M.-a Eustace replied, “but not faultless.” “ Pray point out the fttults,” said Mr. At kins. “ Let us have the benefit of your cri 'iq’ir upon it.” Miss Eustace blushed, and begged to be ex cused. She was sorry she had expressed any feeling of disapprobation. But Mr. Atkins i ersisted that she should point out the defects she discovered, in which she was joined by the rest of the circle. Blushing still more Id-ply, Miss Eustace said—- “ Clara could not have felt true friendship or Eleanor, or she would not have manifested such indelicate joy, when the latter was prov e 1 so base.” “ Clara’s own explanation, that she had a dearer friend, at whose escape she rejoiced, was a sufficient apology.” This opinion, though differently expressed, was littered by every one at the same moment, Mr. Chauncey excepted. “That, as l think, is another defect,” said Miss Eustace. “ Was there no indelicacy in her permitting that dearer friend to see that she loved him, and calculated on the offer < f his hand, while he yet had made no declaration of attachment to her?” “ Her amiable sincerity would atone for that fault, if it could be called a fault,” said Mr. Atkins. “ Hardly, I think,*’said Miss Eustace. “I always was sorry the passage was written, es pecially as it was written by a woman, and have ever leen inclined to jump it when read ing the tale. I like not that female delicacy should be sacrificed, even at the shrine of sin cerity. But Mrs. Opienot unfrequently sins against the more refined aud retiring delicacy ot her sex.” “ In what other instance do you think she has done it, Miss Eustace ?” asked Mr. Ciiaun cey. “O. in many,” Miss Eustace replied. “A ny one who understands the true female char acter, and who will read lier works carefully, will easily detect thepi.” “O, name them—name them, Abby,” said Mr. Atkins. “ Yes, name some other,” said Mrs. Atkins. “ There is one in ‘ Madaline’ that now oc curs to me,” said Miss Eusticc, “That struck me as grossly indelicate ; and, indeed, not true to nature. Madaline says of herself, ‘ that she sang louder than usual one evening when she supposed that Mr. Falconer was listening behind the 1 e Ige, that lie might hear her.’ ” “ YVas that false to nature, as well as indeli cate, Abby ?” asked Mr. Atkins. Coloring more highly than ever, while her silken lashes fell over her eyes, as if to conceal their deep expression, she replied— •• I should have supposed that the idea of the proximity of one so dear to her, under sucli circumstances, would have rendered it impossible for her to sir." ns hud as usual, if indeed she could sin".ut all.” Mr. Atkins, who m a seated bv l.rr, whis. petedin her car—“ What happy fellow taught rou io much of tiie effect oftte tended p&sskm, Abby?” This question covered lier whole face and neck with a glow of carmine: but in a low, and somewhat tremulous tone, she said— “ May not instinct teach a woman how she should probably be affected under such cir cumstances ?” “Possibly,” said Mr. Atkins—“but for all that, I do suspect you most grievously.” All the little party continued to converse in the moat animated manner, Miss Eustace ex cepted. She was making a feather screen for Mrs. Atkins, and she now applied herself to her work with the most j-ersevering diligence, and in perfect silence. “Do let us hear the sound of your voice again, Abby,” said Mr. Atkins, in an under tone. “You have now maintained the most profound silence for more than an hour. Pray speak once again.” “ I will,” said Miss Eustace, “ for I am just going to ask Augusta if my screen will do.” “I can tell you that it will,” said Mr. At kins, “it is very handsomely made.” But Miss Leigh differed from him in opin ion. “It is not so pretty as it might he, Ab by,” said she. “ The different colored leath ers are not so arranged as to produce the ef fect.” “ Arc they not ?” said Miss Eustace. “ I have teen trying to make it as pretty as possi ble. But you are correct, Augusta, ’ added she, after holding the screen in different points of view ;“it is really a gaudy looking thing. I will give it to some child who needs a fan, and will te delighted with its gay colors, and make another lar my friend.” “Ono, Abby,” said Mrs. Atkins, “you shall not take that trouble. This is really a handsome sc:ten.” “So I thought,” said Miss Eustace, “until Augu-ta helped to open my eyes to its glaring defects. No, no —I will make another for you. Should you carry this, it might te thought that a Sachem had robbed some fair one of his tribe, and laid the spoils at your feet. 1 should take no pleasure in giving you any thing so ill-looking—in such bad taste.” “ Just as you please, dear,” said Mrs. At kins, “though I am sorry that you should give yourself so much trouble.” “I shall not esteem it a trouble,” said Miss Eustace, as she resumed her seat, and at tiie same time her taciturnity. Miss Leigh was peculiarly happy this eve ning. Mr. Chaunccy did not, it is true, con verse with her any more than usual, nor say any thing to her that he might not 1 nvesaid to another; but there was something in his man ner, in the tone of his voice, and in the expres sion of his eyes, when lie addressed her, that betrayed his admiration, his growing prefer ence. Mrs. Atk ins observed it with much pleasure. She truly loved Mss Eustace, and would not have been dissatisfied had she be come the object of Mr. Chaunccy’s choice ; yet lier cousin Augusta was the one she had in her own mind selected for his wife. But Mr. Atkins saw it with something like regret. Though lie really thought that Miss Leigh was, as he had said to Mr. Chauncey, a fine, a no ble minded girl, yet she was not his favorite of the two young ladies. lie loved Mr. Chaun cey with a warm attachment; and Miss Eus tace, according to bis opinion, was the very person to secure his happiness. After Mr. Chauncey took leave, Mr. At k’ns and Miss Eustace chanced to be left alone for a short time, when the former abruptly said— “ You really vex me, Abby.” “Vex you! how? 1 am very sorry,” said Miss Eustace. “ Why, here is my friend Horace, who is decidedly the finest fellow I ever knew, whom you arc permitting Augusta to early off, with out one effort to contest the prize !” “ Effort ! Mr. Atkins ?’’ said Miss Eustace. “ Would you have me make an effort to attract his attention ?” “ No—not exactly make an effort; but I would have you do yourself justice—would have you let him see a little what you arc. YVhy cannot you talk as much when lie is here, as you do at other times?” “You are now laughing at me!” said Miss Eustace. “ 1 have been quite ashamed of my self. ever since I was drawn on to say so much about Mrs. Opie’s works.” “ The only time you have spoken this eve ning !” said Mr. Atkins. “ Truly you have great cause to be ashamed of your loquacity ! Why, Augusta, said more words to him in half an hour to-night, tlian he lias heard you utter since you have been here !” “It may be so,” said .Miss Eustace; “but you may depend on it, Mr. Atkins, that I will never speak a word ivhen I should otherwise be silent, nor say any thing different from what I should otherwise say, to secure the attention, or meet the approbation of any gentleman in the world!” “You are incorrigible !” said Mr. Atkins. “And another thing—either you dislike Horace, or are attached to some other man. I suspect the latter. I have watched you a little this evening, and noticed a shade of sad ness—of melancholy, on your brow, that I ne ver saw there before. Ido not wish, my dear Abby, from idle curiosity, to pry r into the se crets of your heart, —but tell me —is not my ! suspicion correct ?” “ 1 do most truly assure you it is not,” Miss ! Eustace had just time to reply, ere Miss Leigh | re-entered the parlor, and the former immedi ately left the room. ! *O, hots tlmrikftd I am,” tliought sJ.fi, 6s ‘she shut herself in her own chamber—“how thankful I am that he framed his question as lie did ! otlienvise what could I have done ? Dislike Horace Chauncey! Love some other man ! O, would the former were true ! Would I had passed through the same Lethe in which he seems to have been plunged ! But no mat ter—l will soon go home, and then strive to grow forgetful myself; for never will 1 trv to refresh his memory! Sad! said Mr. Atkins? I w ill not be sad—at least no one shall see me so—l will not be so if I can help it!” Humming a cheerful air, which, however, lost something of its sprightliness, though none of its melody, as she warbled it, ste returned to the parlor. As day succeeded day, the visits cf Mr. Chauncey became more frequent, and the in terest .Miss Leigh inspired more obvious. The f eat next her he always, if possible, secured ; if that was occupied, the back of her chair fre quently afforded him a support. He interest ed himself m all her pursuits—looked over the book she was reading—examined and admired lier work, —and never seemed completely hap py urffess near her, and having some object cf mutual interest. Meantime, despite Miss Euctacc’s resolu tion, she was frequently sad ; and notwithstand ing her efforts at concealment, which led her to appear unnaturally gay, Mr. Atkins saw it. He was observing lier closely, but silently ; not even suggesting to Mrs. Atkir.s that any change was coming over her friend. But he noticed that the moment after the frolic or the joke was passed, a seriousness rested upon her features, ns unnatural to them as frivolity was to her manners. When Mr. Chauncey was present, she indeed appeared not more different from formerly, except that her cheek was less frequently dimpled with a smile, lier eyes were more intently fixed on her work, and her silence, if possible, was more profound than ever. Sometimes, when a pang of pe culiar bitterness shot through her heart, she would resolve on closing her visit immediately ; but when she had hinted such an intention to -Mrs. Atkins, that lady seemed so much hurt, and so strenuously opposed such a measure, that she abandoned the idea. Yet how could she stay three months longer,—which was the term originally fixed for her visit.—witnes sing that which she witnessed—that which was constantly enhancing her disquietede ? Often in the retirement of her chamber, she would take herself severely to t..sk. “ How foolish—how worse than foolish I have been, thus year after year to let one idea engross my heart, without ever looking forward, for a moment, to a resultjike this ! Common sense, common prudence, common discretion would have taught me better! Yet 1 consulted nei ther; but permitted my foolish imagination to indulge itself at the expense of my peace. Childish infatuation! But I will thus indulge myself no longer. This attachment shall be rooted out! He and Augusta will make a no ble couple. I see it—much as my heart rebels against it. They will love mid be happy! What if she will not study his every wish, as 1 could not study his every wish, as l could not help doing, and lose her very being in his ! he will love her; and the observation of her shi ning qualities, will leave him r.o time to regret the absence of trifling and minor attentions or virtues, 1 must , I will forget this dream of yours, which else will involve me in misery, if not in guilt. Too much already has my heart been divided between heaven and earth! and richly do 1 deserve this suffering, for permitting a creature, however exalted in virtue—and (). how exalted he is ! how far above all others that 1 have seen ! yet how wicked I have been to permit him to engross so much of that love ! which before Lis sacred altar, I promised should be first ofall for my Clod ! Father,” she cried, while she raised her tearful eyes to heaven, “draw rny affections to thyself, though my heartstrings should be severed !” [TO EE CONCLUDED.] THE YOUTHFUL BItIDF. Observe that slow and solemn tread, when the young bride takes her wedded one by the arm, and with downcast looks, and a heavy heart, turns lier face from ‘sweet home,’ arid all its associations, which have for years been growing and brightening, and entertvvining so closely around the purest and tendcrest feelings of the heart. How reluctant that step, as she moves toward the carriage; how eloquent those tears which rush unbidden from the foun tain 1 She has just bade adieu to her home ! she has given the parting hand—the parting kiss ! With deep struggling emotion she has pro nounced the farewell! and oh, how fond, and yet mournful a spell the word breathes ! ai.d perhaps ‘tis the last farewell to father, mother, brother, sister! Childhood and youth, the sweet morning of life, what its ‘charms < fearliest birds,’ and ear liest associations, have now passed. Now commences a new—a momentous period o! existence* Os this she is well aware. She reads in living characters— uncertainty assa iling that whec all was peace—where all was happiness—where home, sweet home was ; 1, in all unto her. But these tics, these associ ations, these enjoyments, she has y elded, one by one, and now she has broken them all asm - der ! —.She has turned her Tree from them ali, and witness how she clings to the arm of him* for whom all these have been exchanged ! See how she moves on : the world is bes > e ter, aud a history to be written whose page* > to U filled up with Lfo'B loveliest tor lings, or, perhaps, with incidents of after' interest; of startling, fearful record ■ can throw aside the veil even of three s years and ten for her, and ‘ record the and sun-bright incidents that shall arise in ! cession, to make joyous and foil the life; that shall throw around those embeite ments of the mind and the heart that \ V K ; crowns the domestic circle with beautv /J loveliness; lhat which sweetens social i n te course, and softness, improves and elevates condition of society ? Or who, with ari J unwavering hand, can register the hours J days of affectionate and silent weenino- j midnight watching! Who pen thj Eh hopes—the instances of unrequited love-d loneliness and sorrow of the confiding heart * the deep, corroding cares of the mind " neglected and forgotten, as it were hv r who was dearer to her than around is drear and desolate— when the acred stores are wasted, and the flickeri * Lluze upon the hearth wanes and goes out ' and leaves iier in solitude, in silence, and 7 tears ? But her affections wane not, slumte not, die not! r i ‘ ,,ie brilliant skies may shed down all t’ ne ; r gladdening beauties— nature array herself in gay flowers, bright hopes—and friends, kind f lends may greet with laughing countenances and Kind hearts; but it avails naught. On* k.nd look—one soft and affectionate accent the unequivocal evidence of remaining ] ove J one smile like that which wooed and won that heart, would enkindle brighter and deeper and lovelier emotions its its fountain than earth with all its splendor, beautv and uav 7 sociations. ‘ ° * , 0il! young man, ever to be thy young bride tnen, what thou scemest now to be; disap! point her not. What has she not given up for t iee ! W hat sweet ties, that bound heart to heart anti hand to hand, and life to life, has she not broken off for thee? Prove thyself wo - thy of all she has sacrificed. Let it ever lx* her pleasure, as now*, to cling with confiding joy and love to that arm. Let it he her staq iicr support, and it shall he well repaid. Here is an enduring—-an undying love! Prosperity whi strengthen it—adversity will brighten and invigorate it, and give to ‘it additional lustre and loveliness! Should the hand of disease tail upon thee, then wilt thou behold woman’s love—woman’s devotion ! ‘for thou wilt never witness her spirits wax faint and drooping at thv couch ! YY hen thine own are failing* she will cling to thee like a sweet vine, and diffuse around thy pillow those sweet influences and atti actions that shall touch the master-springs and nobler passions of thy nature—that shall gi\e new impulse to life! Her kind voice will be like music to thy failing heart—like oil to thy wounds ! A ca, she will raise thee, re store thee, and make thee happy, if any thing less than an angel’s arm can do it! Halifax (N. S.) Pearl. FEMALE friendship. I think there is nothing more lovely than the love of two beautiful women, who are not en vious of each other’s charms. How deight fully they impart to each other the pattern of a cap, or flounce, or frill! How charmingly they entrust some slight, slender secret about tinting a flower, or netting a purse ! Now one leans over the other, and guides her inexperi enced hand, as it moves in the mysteries of some novel work, and then the other looks up with an eye beaming with devotion; and then again the first leans down a little lower, and gently presses her aromatic lips upon her friend’s polished forehead. These arc sights which we quiet men, who, like “ little Jacky I lor ner,” know whereto take up a safe position occasionally enjoy, but your noisy fellows, who think that women never want to be alone—a sad mistake—and consequently must be always breaking or stringing a guitar, or cutting a pencil, or splitting a crow-quill, or overturning the gold ink, or seribling over a pattern, or do ing any other of the thousand acts of mischief, are debarred from. A SISTER. He who has never known a sister’s kind ministrations, nor felt his heart warming be neath her endearing smile and love-bean ij[ eye, has been unfortunate indeed. It is not to be wondered at, if the fountains of j urc feeling flow in his bosom hut sluggishly ; or if the gen tler emotions of his nature be lost in the steine: attributes of manhood. “That man has gr iwn up among 1 iifd an J affectionate sisters,” 1 once heard a ladyef much experience and observation, remark. “ And why do you think so?” said I. “ Because the rich developement of all the tender and more refined feelings of the which s so apj aront in every action nnu word. ” A sister’s influence is felt even in manhoods lat t years, ard the heart of him who has g' (W3 co 1 1 in its chilling contact with the world. warm and thrill with pure enjoyment, as sort’ incident awakens within him the soft t me art* glad melodies of bis sister’s voice. And be " 1 tun from purposes which a waiped and t'" system ol pi ilosophv lias reasored in e pose ' cy, and even weep for the gentle influen x win* has moved him in his earlier years. Atherffurt- P/ napkin Tie —A Miss Pumpkin. of W' mont> has lately been married to a Mr. *‘ c '