informed. Where the one was generous from impulse the other was benevolent from duty. While the elder cousin sought on all occasions only her own gratification, the younger one labored as much for the pleasure of others as for that of herself. The love of Fletcher, therefore, for this sweet girl was the offspring of a firm conviction of her worth. It was a passion which, he felt, could end only with his life.
The love of Desmond for Charlotte was a different thing, a mere romantic fancy, nursed by the imagination, and which would have been at variance with the judgment ifthat faculty had not been lulled to sleep. Struck by the fascinations of Miss Estaigne he had shut his eyes to her imperfections. Like too many lovers, of both sexes, he had created an ideal being, no more like the reality than a landscape mellowed by twilight is like the same scene beneath the noonday sun. He heard the strictures of Fletcher, therefore, with real astonishment, and magnified into virtues-as we have seen-what his friend called errors. His opinion of Helen was formed without any intimate acquaintance with her. It was an error such as is often committed by superficial thinkers.
Time passed. The attentions of Desmond to Miss Estaigne soon became decided, and at length their marriage was spoken of as an occurrence which would speedily take place. Nor was the public voice more reserved in assigning Helen Steevens to Mr. Cowell. For once, too, the rumors were correct. The two young men were married within the same month. A bare six months had elapsed since his marriage ere Desmond's whole character appeared to be changed . His brow wore an anxious and care-worn expression, which the extravagant mirth that he affected at times failed to remove. It was evident that all was not right within, that happiness was a stranger to him, and that he strove but vainly to conceal his feelings. It speedily | came to be rumored that he rarely spent an evening at home, but was ever to be found with gay and dissolute companions. As month after month rolled by, his disinclination to the domestic hearth became more and more apparent, until finally his desertion of his wife became the theme of general remark. As usual some blamed the lady and some the gentleman. A few spoke of peevishness, self-love, and constant recriminations, which were said to have made Desmond an exile from his home ; but the greater number denounced him as the most brutal of men for his desertion of an unoffending wife. It was about a year after his unhappy marriage that Desmond dropped in one evening to see his friend Fletcher. The tidy room, the air of comfort around, and the happy smiles of the wife caused an involuntary sigh from the haggard and now morose Desmond. His visit was of short duration. After he retired a mutual
silence prevailed with the young and happy couple. At length the wife spoke, "Poor Desmond !" she said, " how bad he looks ! Charlotte, I fear, has never acted toward him as she should : indeed I often see things there which make my heart ache. Alas ! for my deluded cousin." " Do you know, Helen," said her husband, fondly drawing her toward him, " that I foresaw all this, and used every honorable effort to open Desmond's eyes to Charlotte's true character ? I told him that she was selfish, vain, but above all high tempered. He could not see her character in the same light in which I saw it : we came near having high words ; but wisely concluded to avoid a subject on which we could not agree. His looks, when he visits us, convince me that he remembers our conversation." "And yet," said the young wife, after a pause, "he might be happy if it was not for Charlotte's temper, for her vanity and selfishness, and indeed all her other errors might, by the aid of love, be corrected. But oh ! the scenes I have witnessed there. It would break my heart, dear Fletcher, to have you look at me as she sometimes looks at her husband ! And she is daily becoming worse. Her husband's visible unhappiness stings her heart, and awakes all her evil passions. A single spark blows all into a flame. Alas ! for the life they must mutually lead." "It is indeed dreadful to contemplate," said the husband, " I always feared a high temper, and believe half of the unhappy marriages, of which we hear so many complain, can be traced to it. But let us, dear Helen, change this gloomy conversation. You shall sew and I will read to you." A year from that time, Desmond, who, meantime had become thoroughly dissipated, was found drowned. The coroner's jury brought in a verdict of accidental death . Let us hope it was so, and not attribute it to despair, brought on by his wife's temper.
HOME . BY H. P. WITBECK. SCENES of my birth and careless childhood hours, Ye smiling hills and spacious fertile vales, Where oft I wandered plucking vernal flowers And revelled in the gently breathing gales ; Should fickle fate with talismanic wand Bear me afar where either India glows, Or fix my dwelling on the Polar Land Where nature wears her everlasting snows? Still shall your charms my fondest themes adorn Where placid evening paints the western sky, And when Hyperion wakes the blushing morn To mar his gorgeous sapphire thrown on high. Still to the guileless heart where'er we roam No scenes delight us like our much loved home.
