and immature of the three, as he had been decided by an attraction to the young man indefinable to himself, one of those mysterious correspondences which modern (soidisant) science calls magnetism.

He was hurrying out of the room, to communicate the decision to the young advocate, when Grace arrested him, and in her sweetest voice-its sweetest tone was a syren's to his ear-"Now, Uncle Walter," she said, "you can't go a step, if our bread depends on it, till you have granted me one favour."

"What you will, child-let me go.

Whatever you have to ask, take it for granted I have said yes.'

Grace snapped her fingers, and kissing him, cried, "That's enough-now go, dear old uncle."

No, no, Grace-it is not enough," said Eleanor. "Stop, Uncle Walter-come back-one moment. We have found a long letter of your's in an old trunk of grandpapa's, that we were looking over

"A long letter from me, child! It can't be; I never wrote a long letter in my life-never-but one," he added, his face suddenly clouding, "and that letter-surely my father did not preserve that? Where is the letter,

Eleanor? Grace, where is it ?"

Grace thrust her hand into her pocket, and produced it. He unfolded it and glanced at its contents, then crumpled it in his hand, and threw it into the grate. In a breath its substance vanished. "Type of my life!" he said, in a low, mournful voice. Then crossing his hands behind him, he walked slowly to and fro. Pausing, and turning to his nieces, he added, "Ask no more questions, my children. There was nothing of any import to you in that letter; nothing to me-now. Its substance is written here," putting his hands on his bosom; "it has run a dark thread through my whole life. Sad, sad, are the results of our ignorance and our errors."

He wiped away the tears that gushed over his cheeks, left the room, and slowly and heavily walked out of the house.

"Elcanor!" exclaimed Grace, "what can this mean? If we had but read a little further!"

"Well that we did not, Grace."

"It was no discretion of mine, at all events. It is not mere curiosity, Eleanor; Uncle Walter and I, you know, are the most intimate of friends. I cannot bear to have a leaf in his life that I have not read, a fold in his heart hidden from me.”

"There is not, dear Grace. It does not seem to me that the facts of our life are important; but the character that is formed from them. The herb is worthless, after its essence is distilled."

Oh, my dear sister Reason! Well, I will try to follow in your shining footsteps, only I must pine to know what brought that shower of tears over Uncle Walter's dear old face."

CHAPTER IV.

The Decision.

"Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble minds)

To scorn delights and live laborious days:
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,

And slits the thin-spun life,-But not the praise !"-MILTON.

LET us look into the apartment of a young lawyer preparing his first great case. The room is in the upper story of a lodging-house, comfortable and respectable, but without pretension to style or luxury of any sort. There is a forgotten fire in the grate, that, thanks to the enduring quality of anthracite, has not quite mouldered away. The apartment has the aspect of a careless bachelor's, and a devout student's. We will not impertinently explore drawers of unfolded vests, and odd gloves, or mark articles of apparel lying anywhere but where they should be. Sins of omission and commission against order were the inconvenient frailties of our friend. But these did not extend to his books and papers. As some priests apply their religion to their sacerdotal, and

not at all to their secular life, so our young lawyer was fastidiously orderly in his professional and literary affairs. A moderate-sized book-case was filled with books and lexicons in various languages, indicating the wide horizon of his general culture, and a table at which he was sitting was covered with law-books, briefs, and notes, carefully classed. There he sat, intently studying the points of his case till two o'clock in the morning, occasionally pacing his room, addressing the gentlemen of the jury in a voice that startled from their slumbers the womenlodgers in the neighbouring rooms, who, between their dreams and their fancies, made out an alarming tale for the next morning's breakfast.

After having put his law-papers in his satchel, with the confidence which only a man very young in the profession could entertain that there was not a chance against his clients, he took a sheet of letter-paper, and opened a drawer containing his private correspondence. Therein was a file of letters from the good old father at home, filled with wise counsel, abundantly enforced with texts from the Old and New Testaments. Besides these, there were letters written in large round hand from little halfbrothers-prodigious first efforts-thanking "brother Archy" for presents of books, and skates, etc., etc., etc., and a file of notes, delicate hair-strokes, every margin and corner filled with the lingerings of feminine love, and marked, "From dear little Letty." The most bulky parcel was slipped into a morocco case, and inscribed "Arthur Clifford, Abiit non Obiit."

Near this was a substantial file, written in a good, strong, old-fashioned hand, inscribed, "From my dear mother-friend, Mrs. Clifford.” Tucked into the same parcel were two or three notes in the ambitious chirography of a little girl, marked "Dear little Alice." Besides these last was an unfiled letter, which Archibald Lisle opened, and answered as follows:

:

"MY DEAR MRS. CLIFFORD,-I am going into court to-morrow to advocate, for the first time, a cause of importance, and to secure or lose for my clients real estate in the upper part of the city, likely to become of great

value. I have explored titles a century back, when this property was a waste rocky field-now, a noble avenue bounds it. It was originally purchased by two gentlemen of the names of Herbert and Copley, and, singular enough, after various sales and transmissions, the controversy is now between descendants of the original purchasers, Copley versus Herbert.' My clients, the Herberts, are an elderly gentleman and two young ladies, who, though somewhat decayed in fortune, are yet of unquestioned aristocracy. Their progenitors belonged to the colonial gentry-there is still a remnant of that Israel. Mr. Herbert-Walter Herbert, Esq.-I have seen repeatedly. He is a fine old fellow, tall, still erect, and robust, with thick hair of silver sable, an eye like an eagle's, and a heart of gold. The young ladies are his nieces; one, a 'bright particular star,' I have seen once only; but, once seen, she is never to be forgotten.

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My friend, Frank Esterly, is devoted to these lovely sisters, but which is the object of his pursuit I do not know, nor am I quite sure he would dare to raise his hopes to either. They are a constellation quite apart from the belles of the city, got up by boarding-schools

and French milliners.

You may wonder, my dear friend, that I dare take the responsibility of a suit of such importance, and for such parties. I have gone forward on the advice and recommendation of Counsellor Jones, and on the conviction that I am better acquainted with the bearings of the case than another man can be, having studied and prepared it with infinite pains; and thus I have taken a bond of Fate, and made assurance doubly sure. Besides my professional zeal, I have the romantic aspiration of a champion of these fair dames; and to tell you the whole truth, I should like to foil this Horace Copley. He is an idle young man, with an immense inherited fortune, and, I am told, is reckoned the first prize in the matrimonial lottery of fashionable life here. He is an Apolloin-little, so elaborately exquisite in his dress, and all his appointments, that he is esteemed the glass of fashion. He is fastidious in his preferences among women, and only demonstrative to pretty married ladies, who are

supposed to wear their bonds lightly. I have a dislike to his genus, and I confess to a personal pique against the man. I once dined in company with him. Miss Grace Herbert was one of the party. He was hovering about her with the expectation, no doubt, of leading her to dinner. Our hostess assigned that honour to me. She is a brilliant, most captivating young woman, and I was just losing my shyness, forgetting my country-breeding and myself, when a lady on my right hand said something in a low tone to Copley. I heard only my name, and his reply, 'From New England; clever, I understand; but, as you see, a vulgar fellow. His frock-coat at a dinner party betrays his style of life. He is the son of a mechanic.' 'Dear me!' exclaimed the young lady, 'how odd of Mrs. Jones to mix her company that way.' I had just filled my glass with claret. My hand trembled, the ruddy wine spilled over, and went rippling down Miss Herbert's lustrous silk. I stammered apologies. I half rose from my chair, dropped my knife and fork on the carpet, seized the unfortunate young lady's embroidered handkerchief, and did all that a bashful, blundering blockhead might to attract attention; and, to crown my confusion, I met Copley's eye. I shall never forget the supercilious sneer on his face. It was in vain that Miss Herbert was gracious and kind, and ready to laugh it off with a woman's ready wit. I could not recover myself. I was mute through the remaining courses, that seemed to me slow and solemn as a funeral procession, and when the ladies withdrew, I made my escape. When I came to myself, I was thoroughly ashamed that Copley's impertinent malice should have moved me. I am proud enough of having my birth-right in New England, and I honour my mechanic' father, with, if I mistake not, a juster and nobler pride of birth than that of all the Howards. But, my dear Mrs. Clifford, there are atmospheric influences under which we take the world's coin at its own impress and estimate. I was young, and green, and so took Copley's, but once out of his presence I recovered my manhood, and trampled his opinion under my feet. Why then,' do you ask, 'do you retain so vivid a memory of it ?' I confess it has left a scar, but I