because you are wealthy, and all that, of course, Robert, but because I really do know you are—so good, so disinterested, so true, and because your dear mother and sisters are just like you, and I could love them as if they were my own relatives."

"In mercy, Rosalie, why do you talk to me so, if you never mean to accept me ?"

"Why, indeed? Because I cannot reject this kind ness, for which I am indeed most sincerely grateful, in any other but the humblest manner, and with every circumstance to assure you, that I feel how much good I reject in rejecting you, Robert. Dear Robert, there is certainly destiny, as well as duty, in these matters; and, well as I like you, I could not love you enough to marry you, if my salvation depended on it; indeed I could not. I am not destined to so easy a life, Robert. I begin to have a foreshadowing that my lot will be a very rough one, Robert; that I shall not be left to bask in the sunshine, but shall have to face and weather the storm."

now?

"You-you fragile snow-drop! What do you mean You meet the storms of life! Has the Planters' Own Bank broken, or have all the slaves on the plantation run off in a body?"

"Neither one nor the other, Robert. And if I 'rough it' in the world, it will be my own free choice."

"I confess I do not understand you-except that you make me wretched; that is plain enough, but as to the rest, I am all in the dark."

"It is my own secret, Robert."

"One thing I do know; that is, you are too delicate for a rough life."

"Robert, there are many delicate natures that have

been cherished, and nursed, and petted to miserable weakness and death. My flower garden has taught me that lesson.”

"I should like to know how a flower garden could teach you a lesson like that!"

"Oh! should you? I can tell you, then. Last year, when I came here, I found a new flower growing in the garden. I don't know botany, and I don't know what the flower was, or how it came there; but I suppose the wind brought the seed. My flower was so feeble and withered, that it had lost all beauty and comeliness, and every charm, except a delightful odour. I weeded and worked around it, and watered it regularly, and nursed and cherished it, but it faded faster and faster, yielding a dying fragrance. I said it was too exposed and cold, and I took it up and transplanted it to the conservatory. There it wilted and fell, and I gave it up for lost. But now mark the sequel. A few days after, I took a ride up to the mountain top, and left my horse, for a ramble on foot. A fresh, delicate, delicious odour greeted me. I looked about, and lo! there, in a cleft of the rock on the mountain top, where it would be exposed to all the snow, and wind, and hail of winter, and burning rays of summer, was my strange hot-house plant! There it grew and flourished, swaying to and fro in the wind, and filling all the air with the freshness of its fragrance! Now what do you think I did, Robert? You will laugh at me, of course, for everybody laughed. The very next day I took my poor flower, that was dying in the conservatory-and that I pitied as if it had been a sick, caged bird-and I carried it up the mountain, and planted it in the evening.

Thunder gusts and showers the next day prevented my ride; but the third day I visited my protege. It was living! It had plucked up a spirit and intended to live. I am like that plant, Robert! And now, to come back to yourself. We must part, Robert, as friends-kindly-but not to meet again, except as mere acquaintances, until you have outgrown the present weakness of your heart."

She extended her hand-he pressed it to his lips, seized his cap, and hastily left the house.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MEETING

"The staring madness, when she wakes, to find

That which she has loved-must love-is not that

She meant to love

There is a desolation in her eye

He cannot bear to look on-for it seems

As though it eats the light out of his own."-Festus.

THE day at length came upon which St. Gerald Ashley and his young bride, with their attendants, were expected to arrive at Ashley Hall. Early in the afternoon, the carriage had been sent to the village to meet them; and in the evening all the members of the family were assembled in the drawing-room, to await them. Many of the country gentry, who had been invited to meet the bridal party, had joined the circle in the course of the evening, and the rooms were now quite full. Among the guests present were

the Right Honourable WR, then Governor of the State; Judge M- of the Supreme Court; and a few others, high in state or national authority, whose distinguished names are now historical. But there was no one present so proud or happy as old Colonel Ashley, who walked about gently rubbing his hands, in the simple gleefulness of his country heart and habits.

The carriage was behind time; for the reason, it was rumoured, that the bride and her attendants chose to rest an hour or two at the village. At length, however, the welcome wheels were heard to roll up to the door, and the travellers to alight and enter the hall. They retired to change their dresses before entering the drawing-room. In the meantime, among the country neighbours in the saloon, all was half-subdued excitement and expectancy. Among the company was Mark Sutherland, of course. He was not one to shade with his dark brow the brightness of other people's gaiety. In the social temper of youth, he had sought to enter into the spirit of the time, and had laughed and jested with the young people, or "talked politics" with the elders, as the case demanded. He had heard the slight, subdued bustle in the hall, incident upon the arrival of the bridal party; and the instant absorption of the whole heart of the assembled company, in the interest of the moment, had left him free. He had stood a few moments quite alone and unobserved, when a slight tremulousness of the air near him, a slight disturbance of his own serenity, caused him to look up.

Rosalie Vivian was standing near him, with a deprecating, imploring look and gesture. Her face was

white as the white crape dress she wore, and her wreath of snow drops quivered with the trembling of her frame.

Startled by her appearance, he asked hurriedly"Dear Rosalie, has anything happened? What is the matter?"

"I ought to have told you before! Some of us ought to have told you! I ought to have done so !" she answered, somewhat vaguely and wildly.

"Told me what, dear Rosalie? What is it?"

"Give me the support of your arm into the next room-there is no one there."

"My child, you are not well!" said Mark, looking at her now with painful anxiety, as he drew her hand through his arm.

"I am not good, you ought to say. I have not been good! I have been a coward! I have not been your friend, Mark! I have been a traitor."

"A traitor! Rosalie, you rave!"

"I ought to have told you any time this month past; but I could not bear to do it.

And now it is scarcely any use at all; it is a mockery to tell you. But yet, indeed, I could not bear to see you standing there, so gay and unsuspicious. I could not bear to think how you would lose your self-command in her presence. No, I could not endure the thought, Mark!" she said, more and more incoherently.

"Rosalie, you are very nervous; you have overexcited yourself about this wedding. Come, let me get you something," said Mark, drawing her gently through the crowd.

As they passed, the buzz of conversation increased very much, and "They are coming;" "The bride is