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Vol. IV.

POOR Anna White! we had laid her in the cold grave with chastened and sorrowing hearts. The pledge which united the remnant of our little band seemed strengthened and woven more closely together by the fingers of death which had rent one of its brightest links away. We talked of the dead, of her gentleness, her beauty, and of the solemn watch which we had kept night and day by her death bed. Many a lone twilight did we meet without consent, and as if animated by one yearning wish, in the still grave-yard where she lay. It was a sad, sweet pleasure. Our hearts were full of regret, but at pain with themselves, for even as sisters had we been to the departed. No broken promise was recorded against us—no lack of attention haunted us with a bitter memory, and we knew if sweet Anna White could arise from her grave and sit down with us in the shadow of that still burial place, she could not reproach us for an unkind act or word. And we, who had been so faithful to the dead, could we in a few short weeks be treacherous to each other? Alas, scarcely had the sods that lay upon the grave of our friend closed, scarcely had the grass which covered them knitted its roots over her bosom, when treachery a thousand times worse than death crept into our little fold.

I have said that Anna Taylor, the eldest of our set, was a fine healthy and beautiful girl. Beautiful indeed she was, but oh! how unlike the sweet feminine loveliness of the departed. Her figure was superb, and even at that early age every limb was rounded into almost voluptuous fulness. Each day her thick raven tresses become more abundant and glossy, and the rich brown hue of her complexion deepened with every breath of summer air till her cheeks were literally pearl-like in their bloom, and no over ripe strawberry was ever half so bright and red as her small mouth.

Anna Taylor knew that she was beautiful. You could see it in the sparkle of her large black eyes, in the coquettish manner with which she moved those lustrous orbs beneath their jetty lashes when admiring eyes were upon her, in the smile which so frequently exhibited those pearly and even teeth. It was visible in her deportment and conversation also. She gradually became haughty and dictatorial with us; and even while standing by the grave of Anna White, would triumphantly relate the complimentary nonsense that had been lavished on her during a short visit which she had made to the county town directly after our friend's funeral. But with all her faults we loved our playmate, and were fond of her, even when the rare beauty which captivated so many sometimes interfered with our own social claims. It is true Anna Clare would now and then turn away in tears when the haughty girl disturbed the still resting place of the dead with boasts of her selfish conquests; and I had often observed her look up reproachfully when commanded, rather than desired to perform any of the kindly offices which, as friends, we had so long interchanged among us. But Anna Clare was an over sensitive girl, an orphan, and alone in the world, and it was not strange that she should shrink from the thoughtless vanity which depressed her too gentle nature. Her refined and poetical mind would hold little sympathy with the worldliness which seemed rejoicing in the heart of Anna Taylor as her form expanded in grace and beauty. Perhaps, too, the orphan Clare felt her own want of personal attractions somewhat too keenly; for her love of the beautiful was intense, and a naturally meek disposition rendered her dissatisfied with the quiet attractions of a sweet, thoughtful face, which, if not strikingly handsome, had a thousand charms of soul and mind which were sure to win upon the heart and the affection, and strengthen