all. But my senses were on the alert yesterday, while these people talked. I never heard Edith talk so well; she kept up with the gentleman, and her unreserve astonished me."

"I was not conscious of it till afterwards, you may be sure, Aunt Eleanor. I found him an earnest-natured, right-minded man, awake to the needs of the age, and chafing under the restraints of his profession. He told me about his family, as well as himself: he had much to say of his mother, and his only sister. His unreserve was infectious. I knew we should never meet again, and cast off the formality which he seemed resolved to wile me from. You need not look so serious, Aunt Eleanor. I did not lose any portion of my heart. I shall remember him, doubtless, for he was the most fascinating person I ever saw: but I could only remember him in sleeping or waking dreams: and for the latter, for which only I am accountable, I have no time and not much propensity."

"Oh, dear! sitting on a low seat is a very uncomfortable thing to do," said Mary, rising and coming nearer to me. "I can't understand the fashion some girls have of sitting on the floor, and throwing themselves down in interesting attitudes, as Ada Grayson does on the slightest notice."

"You are not apt to let your feelings run away with you, at any time, Mary. How demure you were yesterday; how sedate always!"

"Not because I feel slightly, believe me, Edith," said Mary, in a low voice, which had such a painful expression that I felt remorseful immediately. "I have had some terrible lessons in self-control, in my life. No one knows the anguish which has been poured over my soul in my early years. I cannot talk about it--but any one who has borne

it, has no need of tightening the reins which check emotion now. I am seldom moved externally, I grant."

I looked at Mary with a hitherto unknown feeling of respect. I respected any one who had suffered, and grown strong, for strength is the fruit of all endurance of spiritual suffering. I could not remember the deaths which had left me an orphan, and real suffering had seldom come to my lot since. Mary had had a very painful life: I knew part of it, but not the whole sad story; her mother was dead, and her father was believed to be, and she was in ward of my uncle, just as I was. She never referred to the life she had led before the last year, when she came to us, and I could not ask about it. She was a gentle girl, but a singularly precise, exact scholar; undemonstrative and seemingly impassive, she moved serenely amidst the tumult of a school-girl's life at a large seminary, drawing few friends, but making no enemies, and commanding the respect of all. I used to wonder at the perfection of her "mental machinery," as I called the powers by which she was always able to be the first in every class; but the heart, the impulsive, glowing, vital organ, which I had so much difficulty in keeping in its place, seemed a dead letter with her. How differently she looked to me now! I bent over her and whispered-"My dear Mary, do forgive me. I have done you wrong. I did not understand you.”

I included, in this penitential plea, all my unconfessed sins against her, in the long indifference which had refused to comprehend her. What a selfish being I was, in my selfabsorption! how the circle of my hopes, fears, joys and sorrows, filled up my thoughts and completed the sum of my life! I longed to do for others, because I should be happier in action, not because I could benefit others—I practiced no self-denial. I had no respect for the follies of fashionable

life, but followed the current when near it--I simply acted from impulse, I was not the being of principle. I did not suffer, I only grew weary; so instead of growing strong, I was in danger of becoming morbid. I felt very much humiliated that evening, and my uncle observed it; at least he noticed that I was out of spirits, and he said very tenderlyhe was always tender when he was conscious of his human nature at all, my dear Uncle Ernest!

"You are exhausted, Edith, with the excitement of that gay visit, and feel still the fatigue of your journey."

"Oh, Uncle Ernest! you always think, when I am not talking, that I am sick or sorry; I never shall be able to exhibit the dignified repose I so much admire in others; in Mary, for instance, and in Miss Hazeltine, and in Margaret Crosby."

"I doubt if you ever do, dear. It is not natural to you; you will always be excitable, and while such a disposition has its advantages-for it will give you brilliancy in society and energy in all action—it has its disadvantages too, in leaving you low and desponding, as now."

"It is my misfortune, uncle, to be judged most unrighteously by all around me. What stamina has such a character as that you describe? Who will respect it? How can such a person respect herself? I shall always have this injustice done to me; some people will give me too much credit, and others will find too much fault with me."

'My dear child!" returned Uncle Ernest, very gravely, "your organ of Approbativeness is very sensitive, Fowler would say. Do you speak thus through humility, or through the mortification of wounded pride?"

"I am no proud, Uncle Ernest. Little reason have I

useless, unstable, inconsequent-very little reason have I for pride."

6

"You err, Edith, in measuring yourself by what people think or say of you. What kind of a standard is that, my dear? Cultivate that self-respect, founded upon a proper basis, which shall be an inner tribunal to determine the justice of this say so' of the world. Approbativeness, by which I mean the instinctive desire all feel, more or less, for the approval of those around them, is, when not excessive, a very desirable quality in every character. Without it, the child would not seek to please the parent, the pupil would not strive for the commendation of the teacher, and the Christian would be indifferent to the welcome plaudit which shall bid him enter upon the joys of Heaven. It is really a great incentive to excellence, the real energizer of our noble nature. It makes people amiable, consistent, religious. You possess this quality largely. With you the danger is, lest it degenerate into vanity-lest you so much desire the good-will of the world that you would be inclined to strive for the approbation of those who are no judges of real worth."

I said nothing. This all came home. I knew I never enjoyed any success I achieved, unless others knew of it, and approved and admired. My friends said it was because sympathy was so essential to my generous nature; but I was beginning to see myself in a new light.

"Edith is generous, Mr. Cuyler," said Mary, coming to my defence, with the same free, bold spirit which she had shown all the evening; "she always enjoys the success of others, and she shows her own to please-to make other people happy, just as she is made happy by them."

"It seems to me, Uncle Ernest-I do not want to defend

myself, nor am I quite sure that I deserve all Mary says for me so kindly-but when I am much moved by joy or sorrow, there presses upon me more than I can bear alone. Either my soul is lacking in ordinary capacity, or I have a keenness of comprehension beyond the usual reach. I must share the emotion with another-it seems to me a safety-valve for my spirit. What sobs and groans are to the suffering who writhe in bodily torment-and physicians say such demonstrations sometimes save life-is the expression of my emotions to me. If I am happy, I involuntarily try to make my joy contagious-if I am miserable, I am very apt to proclaim that too-so I think what you sometimes mistake for approba tiveness, is only an involuntary demonstration-regardless of the praise or blame of those who hear it."

"I see you have some self-knowledge, Edith, but you have stepped aside a little, dear child, from the phase of character which I was considering. I grant you the gener

osity of soul which Mary ascribes to you. A spontaneous going forth for sympathy is never to be condemned, but a premeditated revelation, a selfish monopoly-an inconsiderate pressing onward into the front ranks-these will be your temptations; you will be inclined to magnify yourself, and to ignore the equal rights of others--so be careful."

V.

"You surely do not call this beautiful?"

"I surely do, Frank Arden; why is it not?"

“Ah, little sister, your eyes have had small vision in this wonderfully lovely world. God has spread out in our Southern country vast gardens, any one of which might have