out dreaming of-of what I am ashamed to write-of my secret of my feelings! Yes! of my love! My cheeks burn as I write the words, but I do love him!-dearly, dearly!-and it is not wrong! Oh! how could I help it! He has been so dear and kind to me; he took me a poor homeless orphan, and surrounded me with comfort and happiness. He gave me what was a thousand and ten thousand times more precious, his tender care and brother's love!

But I-I love him more than if he were my brother. I will write it all in my despair, and then burn the sheet, that my unmaidenly feelings may not be known-but oh! I must write it. There is no one to tell it to; the secret almost crushes me with its weight-I must tell it to this blank paper I feel, or sink beneath the burden. I love him deeply and truly, and there is no shame in it. I could not help it-I do not see how any woman could know him and not love him. Never before have I seen such a nature--and it is his nature which I love so. A romantic girl might admire his noble face, his voice so musical and kind to all around him to high and low-so kind that the very servants love him, and hasten to anticipate his slightest wishes; a young girl might have her fancy caught by these outward attractions, so rare and fascinating, but 'tis not so with me. I love his heart-his kind noble nature that nobility and simple truth which glows in all his words and actions. If 'tis immodest I cannot help it:-I pray for pardon— but I must not conceal it-I cannot. "Was ever woman so wofully placed as I am! I am engaged to one whom I do not love, and I love another. I saw it was his wish-I despaired of conciliating his affec

tion-and in an evil hour I gave a cold hand to his child. I could not win his love, I said; at least, however, I could obey his sacred wish :-and I promised to marry one whom I did not love. Unhappy--sinful--promise! But my word is given-I am utterly wretched, but firm. He shall not suffer from any act of mine.

me.

"And now he leaves us; perhaps I shall never see him again. Even the melancholy happiness of seeing his face daily, is denied me! Oh me! If I could go to him and tell him all! If I could say, as men can to women-'I love you deeply for your kindness and goodness, and cannot feel ashamed of it!' But I never could! If I could resolve to wound him thus, by wounding his son, the words would choke I would die rather than open my lips-as women have died ere this, I am convinced. To be met with surprise and a look of wonder!-to be listened to with an air of strange astonishment-to be answered, 'Dear Frances you pain me, and must not ask me to love you more than a brother!'-to hear him say, 'My little sister, this is all a school-girl's romance-go play with Frank!'-and then for him to mutter as I went away, 'So much for an education on the stage, among ill-bred people!"-such a scene would kill me! I should never hold up my head afterward! I live for him only-for his good opinion and affection; his smile makes me happy,-I think his frown or bad opinion would fill me with wretchedness!

"At least he shall not have reason to think ill of me. I will shut up my misery in my own bosom, and meet him calmly, with a smile. This evening my feelings overcame me, and I have bitterly blamed myself for yielding to them. But I

With an easy

but the painter. smile, he now said: "Ah! is that true, Gilbert? Was Pocahontas in love, as you say, with her knight?"

"Yes-dead in love. You can't read her life without seeing it."

"Was't not the other way? Was not Smith in love with hershe with the youthful Rolfe?" Again the crimson flush invaded the girl's cheeks, but she did not speak.

"No," returned Gilbert, "her history was just this: She fell in love with Smith, as any girl might, for he was not only a brave and noble fellow, as true as steel, and all that a brave woman could desire; he was also one of the most graceful and handsome gallants ever seen-just thirty-eight years of age, and in the full bloom of manhood. Well Pocahontas loved him. But what did this unreasonable Captain do? Why he goes away-drives Pocahontas to despair-and they tell her he is dead-that he wished her to marry Rolfe—and she married him."

Frances held her hand on her throbbing heart, and remained as rigid as a statue.

"Afterwards," continued Gilbert, "she and Smith met in London. Do you recollect their interview? She cried, and reproached him for forgetting her and told him of the report that he was dead-and loved him more than her legal master-Mr. Rolfe. That's about the truth of the matter."

And Gilbert looked again at Frances. It was only for an instantbut that was enough. He saw all— his acute mind had penetrated her

secret.

As to Estcourt, he had not changed a muscle; and now he said:

Very well, if that is all true, my

friend, you could make quite a handsome picture. Of course you'd put Smith in the background of the marriage scene in the old church at Jamestown-concealed behind a buttress-Smith with corrugated brows, clenched teeth, and his hand on his sword—would you not?"

And Estcourt smiled.

"No," said Gilbert gloomily, "if I introduced him at all, it would be in the foreground, saying, with a smile, Take her, my dear Rolfe, with my full consent. 'Tis true the little thing loves me, but I'm a generous fellow-come! get married!' I could'nt paint the words well, but I could the expression."

Gilbert did not dare to turn toward Frances this time; but he looked gloomily again at his friend.

Well, well," said Estcourt, defying the glance, “carry out your idea. But we give too much time to discussions about painting. Can I send you home anything? Or you, my dear Miss Gilbert-or you, young people? Let every one state the particular object of their de sires. I shall have time enough in Europe-it will be amusement."

And thus the conversation turned to other subjects.

At last every one sadly retired-Frank apparently the gloomiest of all. He had preserved this expression for many days, to the extreme surprise of Gilbert; and indeed the young man seemed completely and permanently out of spirits.

When all were gone but Estcourt and Gilbert, the latter drew near to his friend and said in a low tone:

"That woman loves you!"

"Loves me! whom do you mean?" said Estcourt starting, as he wiped his brow after the trying scene he had gone through.

"I mean Miss Frances Temple." "Gilbert, you are mad!"

You did

"I am perfectly sane. not see her when I spoke of Pocahontas and Smith, and painted you in the character of the latter-" "Did not see her! Why what can you mean?"

"She turned as crimson as that curtain, and at one moment I was sure she would faint."

"You are mad!" cried Estcourt, leaning forward in his chair and almost trembling.

"I tell you it's so."

"You dream! You see what does not exist!"

"And you are blind-yea high gravel blind! As blind as a mole! I tell you she loves you!"

Estcourt again wiped the cold dews from his pale forehead; and sank back in his chair silent. He remained thus for some moments, alternately looking at the door through which the girl had disappeared, and at his friend. At last his self-possession returned, and he gradually passed from agitation to calmness from calmness to smiles. "What a strange mind you have, Gilbert!" he said with an air of banter, "never did I see such a mania for penetrating human emotions and reading countenances. But like all subtle minds as I've ere now told you, you overdo the work. You see absurdities, my dear fellow."

"I see the truth!" cried Gilbert, “for heaven's sake drop your affectations here in private with me. They do not deceive me!"

"Well you are right," returned Estcourt, permitting the gloom to return to his countenance," that is just, and here, at least, I need not put on my mask. But I none the less tell you, Gilbert, that in this you are the victim of a pure hallucination. You take the blush of timidity, or one caused by the heat of the room, for the agitation springing from-"

"The room is not warm," interrupted Gilbert, "it is quite cool."

"Very well-have it as you will. But I assure you that this is the wildest fancy."

"And I swear to you 'tis gospel truth, or I'm a ninny."

"It is not possible!" murmured Estcourt, moved somewhat by the profound air of conviction in his friend, and knitting his brows with a painful expression, "that would be indeed unfortunate and unhappy!"

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Assuredly," said Estcourt, raising his head calmly and speaking in his tone of noble sincerity, "and my proper course of action is very plain. Gilbert, my boy-the son of the woman who should have been my wife-loves this girl. His love is necessary to the happiness of his life—if she wishes, she shall marry him; and in the decision of that question I will have no part or agency. It may be that your fancy is so far just, that this young lady has conceived for me as great or greater affection even, than for Frank-but of that I shall not take advantage to his prejudice. No, Gilbert! I should despise myself then!--and, heaven aiding me, I will never make that possible! Doubtless 'tis the mere fancy of a girlthis feeling for myself, if indeed it exist at all-and after marriage she will no longer cherish it. The

duties of matrimony-the nurture of children-the love of a kind companion, making love in return, a habit of the wife's nature;-this in any case would obliterate all memory of the momentary dream of girlhood as it does often. You see, Gilbert, that I combat your argument, taking for granted your singular belief. In any case I goyes, I must go-let us not further argue, my dear friend. I do my duty, leaving to a merciful heaven, which penetrates our hidden motives, and the secrets of all hearts, the entire issue of events. Now let us retire, friend-I must be stirring early."

And Estcourt rose.

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'Well, so let it be," returned Gilbert with a profound sigh, "I find myself unable to combat your iron obstinacy--your will, if it please you better. Go, then, Estcourt;-go, led by a chimerical sense of honor. After all, if you really think it your duty, you would be miserable if you were to remain. There is the great complimentmy last tribute. Good-night."

And the friends separated.Scarcely any one but Miss Gilbert slept that night. If every roof of every house were uncoveredwhat a tragic comedy would play itself before the spectator!

Every negro upon the plantation had abandoned his work to come and bid his master good-bye; and it was a most affecting scene, this assemblage of rude Africans, uncouth in their expressions, and the exhibition of emotion, but one and all, filled with the liveliest regret, at the departure of him whom they loved. The mothers had even brought their babies to see the master go; and a universal gloom was depicted in every face.

"See, Gilbert," said Estcourt, smiling, "I think these honest Africans are unwilling for me to depart. An ill-natured person might say 'twas because they feared an exchange of masters--a harsh, in place of an easy, good-humored

one.

But this would not be true; they all love Frank, who is apt to

And going to an old negress who was sitting at some distance, Estcourt took her hand, and pressing it, gave the old soul a bright smile and bade her not be sorryhe would soon return.

We need not detail the manner in which "mammy" received this speech. Awkward and unskilled hands have cast an air of ridicule upon the beautiful and touching provincialisms, so to speak, of our domestics;-let the scene pass unpainted. It was with a warm pressure of the hand and an earnest blessing from the old woman that Estcourt went away at last-and then in turn, he bade farewell to Gilbert, his sister, Frances, Frank, and each servant.