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. you love me, and would see me prosperous, fortunate. and happy!"

"Indeed, I would. How could I wish to see you is not your happiness mine own?"

otherwise

"You will listen to me, then, when I tell you, start not, for I speak soberly and seriously, though sadly, this must be our last meeting!"

"Surely, Clement, you jest with me—you would not wrong me thus," and she clung fondly to his arm, "you cannot be so cruel! Why should we never meet again? Is there aught should make us blush, or fear to own our love ?"

"I jest not, Rosalie! never spake a truer word. Love is to me like the tree in the garden; I am forbidden to taste of its fruit! I have placed my hopes upon a prize more valued than the wealth of untold mines, I despise the world, and consider its cold selfishness, its hollow heartedness, and its base servility; yet would I have it? fawn upon and flatter me. I would gain a name among men; I would hear my praise on their lips, and see them awed and abashed in my presence. Long, long years, must pass ere this can be: thought, soul, mind, body, Everything must be directed to this end. My heart will not acknowledge fealty to two masters; it serves but one; it follows only one! I have not had time to love. Another destiny is before me—a brighter one, and it may be——"

"Happier ? would'st thou say? No; believe me, Clement Lee, it is but an empty bubble, which you would grasp; it has lured many a one to misery and bitterness ! Beware how you trample on the heart that loves you!"

"Hear me, Rosalie, hear me! - I cannot love you if I would-henceforth we can be only friends-we part forever!—and will wilt thou not say me farewell?"

"I may not—I could not speak that word—not even to you who cast me from you as a thing of little worth ! The time will come when you will repent that you had trifled with the love I gave you, but you will not leave me?—say that you will not, and I will. forget that you had thought to part from me—oh! say it, and I will pray for you. I will bless you. worship you!"

Long and earnestly she pleaded. By all his hopes of happiness in this world and peace in another, she besought him not to leave her thus. By the memory of the many happy hours they had spent together; by the vows they had plighted to each other, she implored him not to slight her love. She did not upbraid him—no A word of reproach passed her lips. She would follow him through the world; make any sacrifice for his sake; be his, and his only, through weal and through woe. In sickness, she would watch over him; in adversity, she would comfort him; in prosperity, she would rejoice. with him. She would not be a burden to him; she would work for him, toil for him, and be happy, so that he gave her one tender word, or one approving smile!

Her entreaties moved him not move him; his resolution could not be shaken. With a sudden effort, he tore himself. from her, and murmuring a parting benediction in her ear, he left her heart-stricken and desolate!

Slowly, though surely, the conviction that she was deserted, fastened itself upon her mind. She knew that She was alone, but she could not curse the destroyer of her peace. She felt, oh, how keenly! the bitterness of unrequited love, yet she repined not. It was hard for her to feel that she had "loved not wisely, but too well." Nevertheless, she bowed in submission to the stroke, which had visited her. Bitter and many were the tears she shed.

"Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her, they fell, But still her lips refused to send'farewell!”

From that hour on, Rosalie Herbert was a changed woman—the barbed arrow had penetrated deep into her soul—she never smiled again!

CHAPTER II.

Reclining on a magnificent ottoman in a room whose tapestried hangings and the rich paintings on its walls, bespoke the opulence and taste, which in our own sunny climate has reared villas that may well vie in beauty with those that are interspersed among the vineyards and olive-groves of the far-famed vale of Arno, lay in the form of a fair invalid. Through the open casements, "half-hidden by clematis and rose," came the evening breeze, laden with the fragrance of the magnolia and the orange. The music of the water plashing in The fountain was enlivening and refreshing, and the soft The notes of the nightingale fell on the ear like the remembered voice of an early friend. Vases of flowers, both native and exotic, filled the apartment with perfume. In one corner stood an unstrung harp, silent and listless. as that "which hung in Taras' hall;" the soul which had once animated it, no longer woke from its strings. the wild and unpassioned strains of the Tyrol, or the softer numbers of the lays of Provence. The toilet of Rosewood was richly inlaid with mother of pearl, and decorated with Psyche glass and costly ornaments of Sevre's China. Books, poetry, and music were scattered. profusely over the marble table, which occupied the center. of the room, yet were all these (to most persons, evidences of happiness and contentment) unheeded by the stricken maiden on whom sickness had laid its hand so heavily. They brought no smile to her countenance. No hue of health flushed the fair check, now rivaling the unsunned snow in whiteness and purity. Her long, glossy ringlets hung listlessly over her moistened brow. and the pale, jewelled hand, which seemed scarcely able to sustain the weight of the head it supported. Her eyes