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 evening, except from Ernest Livingston, by whom she felt she was closely observed. Mr. Carleton did not leave her for an instant, although she tried in vain to assure him that she was not ill, hoping that he would leave her to herself.

"Those flowers," said he, "have delightful odors, but do you know that the fragrance of flowers in a close room is thought by some to be poisonous? That may have been the cause of your slight illness. If you will go with me to the sunny south," said he lowering his tone, and assuming his peculiar musical inflection of voice, "we can enjoy the beauty of flowers such as you never saw here, without suffering from their poisonous exhalations, as no hot-bed culture is needed there. And do you know that there is a wide field of usefulness for every woman who would employ most beneficently that higher order of talents with which God has endowed her, that she should beautify this world with noble works even as he has adorned it with flowers."

The siren voice had penetrated her soul. She looked up at him. What a beautiful light shone in his eyes! Oh, deceitful world!

But, asks the reader, where is Amelia, is she still standing in the door? No, gentle reader, the spring day has closed and she is in her quiet little room again buried in the land of dreams. No broken friendship disturbs her thoughts,—she is not rich enough in this world's enjoyment for that; no lingering regret for the past pleasures never to be recalled,—she knows nothing of such experience.