it is impossible-I cannot 'forget I have seen you.' I knew not until roused from my lethargy how deeply I had drained the poisonous cup of love. Never doubting that a manner all natural, all kind as your own, could be anything but a return of the marked interest I evinced towards you, I yielded like a child to the impulse of a too fond and enthusiastic disposition; and at last was unexpectedly betrayed into an avowal, which must have appeared to you like the sudden outburst of a madman's passion. It was not this a growing admiration for a character I was then too base to comprehend, my own confiding and impetuous nature, the mis-interpretation of a thousand looks and words, in short a grievous, grievous error, and a most unlucky accident brought about a declaration, which, though it had been fifty times on my tongue, I had firmly resolved not to make until at least we had met again.

"And now that I have spoken and you have answered, 'for ever impossible,' I feel in a condition of such utter hopelessness as regards my happiness in this world, as, if a voice from heaven convinced me there was no future state, I should feel with regard to my happiness in the next. All this I feel the more, because something tells me what I have lost is partly lost through a rash and premature discovery of my feelings. You have said you liked me I know you liked me. Why in time might not friendship have grown to love? Why might not a long and tried attachment on my part have at last induced you to believe me worthy of its return? I cannot answer these questions. The want of wealth is the only reason I can think of—any previous attachment I am ignorant of-and if the want of wealth, and only this—though now it be an obstacle-might not time, fortune, or my exertions—untiring with such an object—have overcome it? Oh! if I had

but a hope, however faint, however distant, however fallacious, to help me to bear this sudden blow, I should be as happy as I am now miserable.

"But enough—enough of my own misery, since it will only make you unhappy. I have prayed, and I have found relief. I will make a still further effort. I will be more than calm in your presence, I will, if possible, be cheerful; and although hitherto I dared not look at you, nor hear you speak, without feeling as though drops of molten lead were trickling through my brain, I will bear this, and more than this, till the next few hours shall have relieved me from this torturing constraint.

"When I am gone, reproach not yourself when you think of me. This request you may at least grant. I know from experience, and a firm belief in God's love, there is no unhappiness, no evil in this world, which we do not bring upon ourselves, and which

we have any to blame for, but ourselves. If for a moment I suffered myself to accuse you, I again entreat you to pardon me.

It is no small consolation, to believe one we love to be pure and blameless.

"I hardly dare hope you will reply to this letter. I scarcely know with what purpose I have written it, unless it be that a hope yet remains. If you do reply, I implore you not to crush it. Leave me this last plank of my wrecked delusions to cling to. I will not abuse your mercy. I promise to abide by your stern injunctions.

memory of

Through life the

you shall be my guide to Heaven. And till death, may God bless you!"

He folded the letter, and directed it. The spirit in which he had concluded was widely different from the one in which he had commenced it. The expression of his grief soothed him. When he had finished, the fierceness of his passion was changed to sadness. He laid

his face on the table, and cried like a child. A kind voice caused him to raise his stream

ing eyes. He looked up, Gregory standing before him.

and saw Mr.

He started,

and was about to make an angry exclamation; but the affectionate look of sympathy in the benevolent features of the old man disarmed his indignation. He brushed away his tears, and tried to force a smile in their place.

"I knew there was something wrong," said Mr. Gregory, seating himself as he spoke. "I did not like to go to bed without having a word with you. Come, tell me, what is it? an old man's head may sometimes help a young man's heart. What's the matter, More ?"

"Oh, nothing; merely a fit of indigestion. I am subject to these things, but they soon pass away."

"I don't want to intrude upon your secret sorrows," continued Mr. Gregory, "but I am so vain, you see, of being the confidant of

VOL. II.

I