In fact, a medley, with confusion rampant. A great pile of newspapers was thrown up in one corner. Two windows, plentifully cob-webbed, admitted a yellow ight. The floor was greasy and unswept. At one end was a counter, with a boy behind it, folding papers damp from the press. He was rags, cap-à-pie. He was jacketless, and his shirt was only a shirt by the largest poetical license—in fact, an aggregation of rags and dirt!

desire for a reconciliation. But vain, proud, conceited, I was idiot enough to secretly look for her to extend me the olive leaf. I confidently expected an explanation by which I might gracefully descend from my high and aggrieved position, and take her into my confidence and love again! I dreamed it all out, and the stormy passions that first possessed me, gradually grew calm under the soothing influence of these expectations. I had quarrelled in true lover's fashion, jealously, arrogantly, exactingly, conceitedly, and now expected to

An unwholesome-complexioned fellow sat at the table, writing with a worn quill pen on long, yellow slips of paper. He looked melancholy and decayed-in | get back again in true lover's fashion-a flood of tears, keeping with his surroundings.

The first astonishment at this scene was succeeded by an irresistible desire to laugh, but I smothered the inclination behind my handkerchief.

The simple-hearted fellows who wrote the Arabian Nights, are supposed to have possessed imagination. What a delusion! What was their puny invention to that of a modern advertiser ?

a kiss, and all right again. I was tremendously mistaken. Grace was not the woman to surrender herself to the ebb and flow of my caprices. I was to learn that only remorse and contrition on my part could bring back peace again.

In this story the reader has discovered long since that I am no hero-and that I am not painting myself as one. I make a free breast of all my follies-huge as

I stated my business to the unwholesome-complex- they were. ioned gentleman in waiting. He received it with vast condescension. He had lots of such offers; but what could I do?

Nothing definite resulted from this interview, but one was appointed for the morrow-and I managed to find a small circumstance or two on which to hang my hopes. After half-a-dozen conferences, a bargain was closed, by which I was employed as paragraphist, advertisement inventor, manuscript-reader, and to do all sorts of hack-work-at a price which I don't mean to confess.

And this was my literary advent. I soliloquized my old, grand dreams thus: How are the mighty fallen!

Two weeks utterly disgusted me, and I threw up my situation, with all its emoluments, privileges, and immunities. I tried other literary situations, with equal success and corresponding disgust. I published some stories which nobody took any notice of; some witticisms which I had to explain; some poetry which I was accused of stealing. At the same time, another kind of literature I was publishing, was copied and recopied conspicuously into every paper, and read by tens of thousands-in the shape of advertisements!

I began to look around for another profession-and, as if my father guessed the state of my affairs, a postcript in one of his letters timely suggested that if tired of literature, he would give me a letter of introduction to an eminent lawyer, in whose office I could be entered as a student, if I desired it. Gulping down my pride, I wrote back, and said I did desire it-and six days therefrom saw me immersed in Blackstone.

But, I confess that through my armor of vanity and stubbornness, I did feel remorse and pain. I had rejected Grace's offer of amity in the forest on that last frantic ride to the Train. Had I not seen her then, and had I brought away with me the clear, simple recollection of the scene beneath the oak-Harold in her arms, and his fingers toying with her locks. - there would have been apparent justification for my jealousy and rage. But as it was, in rational moments I upbraided myself for the insane bitterness and obstinacy with which I had conducted that interview. how madly and blindly I had thrown away my happiness. There were moments when I was ready to tear myself; when I heaped imprecations upon myself, when I set up my folly as a thing apart, and reviled at it with bitter fury and passionate scorn.

I felt

With such shifting emotions, with clouds for ever trailing over the sky, lightening and deepening from no adequate cause, months passed away. Letters came frequently from my father and from Imy-but never a word or allusion to Grace.

My father's letters spoke often of Harold and his father. Harold's infirmity deepened every day, so the letters ran, and this sight was of such exquisite anguish to Mr. Clarefield, that it seriously affected his health. One letter closed in this wise: "I am alarmed on account of Mr. Clarefield's health. Our Northern autumn, I fear, does not agree with him, and his grief for poor Harold is so poignant, that these two things combine to undermine his constitution. He appears to me to be going into a rapid decline."

I recalled his hollow cheeks, which had struck me the first moment I beheld him; and also the paleness which rested upon his features the day of my departure.

Meanwhile, nothing from Grace-no word, no mention-nothing by which I might climb back to the old happiness. At the bottom of my heart, I do not be- Every letter now contained some allusion to his lieve that I doubted her. I had always a secret expect- health. It was, "Mr. Clarefield is unwell;" Mr. Clareation of an eventual understanding. I was enraged at field's health continues to grow worse;" "I grow more what I had seen-at times, darkly and furiously dispos- and more anxious about Mr. Clarefield;" "Doctor ed to believe her false but I must confess that as time Ellington privately informs me that Mr. Clarefield is in wore on, the secret consciousness of my own precipit- a rapid decline;" "Mr. Clarefield is not long for this ancy grew upon me, and I felt stronger and stronger the world." Then a letter from Imy, with this postcript;

"Then I will not," said I, and began to muse moodily.

"I cannot conceive anything more sad than to watch | any questions about it, Mark, for you know how hard Mr. Clarefield. He evidently feels that he can live but it is for me to keep a secret." a little while, and he will stand for hours, when he thinks he is unobserved, watching Harold with an expression of so much anguish and pain, that it makes me weep to see him." Then other letters from my father; "Mr. Clarefield has a violent cough, and has frequent hemorrhages;" "Mr. Clarefield will not live many weeks;" ;" "We are daily expecting a sad event;" "Mr. Clarefield is dying;" then the entrance into the office one morning of a telegraph boy (one of those ragged Mercuries who carry about with them life and death between greasy thumb and finger, casting a shadow into one circle, a sunbeam into another), and placed before me an ominous envelope. I tore it open:

"He is dead. Come."

I took the night train, and arrived at the station a little after midnight. I found a carriage waiting for me, and Imy bundled up in it, shivering in the cool October air, but patiently and determinedly retaining her place.

"I could not help coming down to meet you, Mark," said she, "for, how could I wait till morning to see you. Father, at first, wouldn't listen to it, but I coaxed him into another decision."

I jumped in by her side. Jack (our grey-headed Factotum), gathered up the reins, and off we started at a gallop.

I wound my arms around Imy's waist, and drawing her close, eagerly inquired the particulars of Mr. Clarefield's death.

"You have come too late," said she; "he was buried yesterday."

"So soon?"

"It was necessary on account of Harold, Mark. Oh, your heart will ache to see him. He became utterly uncontrollable after his father's death. The sight of the body made him so violent-moaning and raving by turns, at one moment weeping convulsively, at another in a perfect frenzy-that we were obliged, for his sake, to hasten the funeral."

"Alas, what will become of him now? His father was the only one who could soothe and quell his turbulent brain."

It was a crisp, cool night. The stars stood sharp in the sky, like diamonds. The forests, even by the starlight, showed faintly their varied hues; and the ground over which we rapidly spun, was strewn with ravaged autumn leaves. Presently we came in sight of the river. It ran darkly and noisily, swollen, as it appeared, by recent rains. Imy shivered as we came near it. "What is it, Imy ?" said I, "are you cold?" "No, but the river, Mark. You recollect its singular effect upon Harold. It fascinates him now, more than ever. He is frantic to be near it. And I am so weak, that I shudder whenever I look at it. It appears to me as if it in some way was interwoven with his fate."

I sought to divert her thoughts.

"How is Frank Bloomer, Imy?" She turned from me suddenly, but I caught her arms, and peered down into her face. Such a pout, and a blush, and a bright, lightning glance! Their two hearts, at least, knew no cloud nor storm.

We drove up to the house. There were lights in one of the lower rooms. As we dismounted, my father came to the door. He spoke a brief word, and led us in.

Harold was there, seated in a big chair, tossing and restless. His face was haggard, and his hair hung thick and wildly over his brow. His collar was loosened, and his white, thin throat was revealed.

A lady, dressed in deep black, was upon the floor at his side as I entered. She started up, quickly, as the door opened, and hastily retreated from the room by another way.

"Why does Grace leave us?" said my father.

"Grace! Grace !" exclaimed I, standing suddenly still, and staring around the room in utter astonishment and bewilderment. Harold caught the words and started up, fixing his sharp, keen eyes upon me.

"Why, it is Mark, Mark Harlow," exclaimed he, "come here, Mark."

I went up to him, and took his hand. It was very thin, and transparent. I looked into his face-into his

"The only one but Grace. Why, what's the matter, eyes, and, bending down, involuntary tears sprang up Mark?"

and fell upon his hands. Oh, what sadder sight could

I had started involuntarily, as if shot by a bolt. the world afford than this? Poor, poor Harold! So "Nothing, Imy. Go on."

"There is something you are to learn, Mark, about Grace and Harold, which is very strange, and which I am forbidden to tell you."

terribly doomed, so sinking beneath this dark calamity

his youth, his high soul, his fine nature, his many grand qualities of heart-blasted all by this strange, insidious poison! Terrible dispensation--calamity can take no shape, misfortune can come in no form, so utterly fearful and full of horror as this!

น

"He's dead, they say!" exclaimed Harold, after a moment's pause, while he watched my bowed emotion in silence, "and the river sings the louder for it. It runs over him-I know it does-so it will over me.

What could it all mean? Could it be within the wildest possibility that Grace was to become united to this madman? However fascinated by him at first, it would be worse than madness on her part to entertain any such idea, now, when his reason lay utterly shattered and dethroned. Then what could be this strange thing between them, of which Imy was forbidden | But I tell you, Mark, you were a foolish fellow when to speak?

"Forbidden to tell me, Imy? Why, that is singular." "Father is to explain it all to you. Don't ask me

you ran away. How like an angel, Mark! The brightest being-and she made me happy. Grace! Grace! Where is she?"

"In a moment, Harold," said my father, quietly. "She will come soon, won't she? I can't live without her, Mark. Father!, father! let me come, toodown with you beneath the river-down, down, down! Grace, why don't she come? Grace! Grace!"

conduct, you wounded cruelly the heart of a true girl; that you proved yourself unworthy her noble nature; that by mean suspicion you injured her in a way which no woman can forgive or forget, perhaps, sir, the painfulness of the discussion may prove an advantageous

"Let me withdraw, sir," said I to my father, "so medicine to your inconsiderate and overgrown egothat Grace may come to him."

"It is very late. We had better all separate. Harold will sleep soon, if quiet."

My father accompanied me to my room.

"Let me see you early in the morning, Mark. You have been rash and foolish—but let me see you very early. I have much to tell you."

"To night, sir ".

"Not to-night," and my father withdrew.

I flung myself upon the bed, but could not sleep. There was some perplexing mystery about matters here, which tormented me-into which I could get no clue. For hours I lay tossing upon the bed, trying in vain to solve it, or build up some satisfactory explanation of it, but turn it in what light I would, I could make nothing of it. There was but this to do-await until the morrow, with what patience I could.

tism."

I looked down upon the floor and did not speak. "That you had a right to an explanation as to the meaning of Grace's sudden-formed fondness for Haroldyou see I know all about it-I admit, and an explanation would have been afforded, had you exhibited a better spirit. Even as it is, it was only by my command that some one of the household did not send such an explanation after you to town. But I thought the lesson too important a one to be rendered ineffectual by too brief a punishment."

"This is very severe, sir."

"I am not disposed to be lenient, I confess. Be as severe as I can, it is impossible for you to experience the pangs you so recklessly inflicted."

"I have suffered much, I am sure"

"But you were guilty-and she, who was innocent, suffered the most, I'll be bound. But I have done with recrimination. have a strange story to unfold to you, Mark."

A cry, as of agony, from the direction of the river, startled us. My father paused, and turned with an

All feelings of jealousy were crushed out of me by Harold's deplorable state. Sympathy for him overruled every other feeling. And yet when I thought of Grace, kneeling at his side, fleeing at my approach-her name hanging so fondly upon his lips-a connexion between them, so evidently fond and endearing, what-anxious look towards the window. We listened breathever it was—and recalled what I was once to her, and she to me a cold sweat broke out upon my brow, and pangs sharp and keen pierced my heart.

lessly, without speaking or stirring for a moment, when the cry was repeated, this time fainter and more remote. I sprang to the window and threw it open. It

I dropped into slumber at last, and slept long into the looked out towards the river. Old Jack was staggering morning.

up the bank, speechless, and weak with terror, throwIt was so late when I descended from my room, that ing his arms wildly about in the air. His cheek was I was obliged to breakfast alone.

deadly pale, as I could see, even at the distance we were

"Where is Miss Ellington?" I asked of Jack, who apart. I turned from the window.

I got up and went to the window. Down by the river bank was Harold and Imy together. There was a boat drawn up on the grass. Harold in a fitful, sportive vein, was attempting to push it into the stream.

I returned to the table, and after finishing my meal, went to find my father. He was in his library.

"Sit down, Mark," said he, "and tell me something about your town experiences."

"I would rather defer that subject, sir."

Why, sir?"

"I came to converse with you upon the subject to darted rapidly to the stable. It did not take a minute which you alluded last night."

to clap the bridle upon True, and without saddle, I "Do you mean the cause of your sudden run to sprang upon her back, and in an instant was dashing at town?"

"Is that the subject, sir? If so, you will pardon me, if I say it is one too painful for me to discuss."

"And if I show you," said my father, turning to me sternly, "that by harsh, dishonorable, and unmanly

her utmost speed along the river bank. True knew the old familiar voice, and the old hand, and with a neigh of pleasure, stretched out in the finest style, thinking we were on one of those old mad scampers, which once were the delight of both of us.

I saw my father, as we dashed by the house, standing | reached it-grasped it with a desperate strength, and upon the sward with clasped hands, and his grey hair tossed in the wind-his pale lips muttering, as if in

"Harold! Harold!" I cried out wildly, "in to shore! prophetic glimmers. in to shore!"

He laughed a long, unnatural laugh, and threw up his arms.

"No, no, the river-the river!" he shouted. "Oh! it is life and peace. I have it now. It is mine!"