much was expended on Helen's accomplishments, (for she still took lessons), and the cost of his furniture. Lovely, thoughtful widow, how she reached into the far future! How she saw herself presiding over that splendid mansion, giving her elegant parties, and smiling with winning condescension on guests who were her superiors! Oh how she luxuriated in her reveries.

How in imagination she saw Helen Raymond quit for ever her uncle's roof, after the bride came. Yes, all this she saw, that pleasant, smiling woman; all this she was determined on, and all this she accomplished. Oh! what is the heart made of when it bends to things so base-and a woman's heart, too! Cold and selfish, how it wraps itself alone in its darkness-how its poison is silently but surely doing its workhow its air of living death taints the atmosphere, and blights young flowers that glow on the altar of love!

to do firmly. There was a spice of vanity in her composition, for we cannot call that pride which prefers fashionable dress and dependence to self-relying effort. Two weeks before the wedding was to take place, Helen was alone in her chamber; she was seated on a low stool, at the foot of her bed, with her face half buried in the bedclothes. She was weeping; and with that hopelessness so painful to witness in the young. I cannot earn my living; I cannot !" she said, and then she wept yet more passionately. "Oh! if something would happen to save me!" She felt the warm color come in her face as she thought of what that something must be, and she half scorned herself for her mercenary feelings. She thought of marriage, and, like too many, she thought of it only as a means to rescue her from an unpleasant situation. She was young and inexperienced, and did not dream that a marriage, unless a perfectly happy one, was a thousand times worse than a state of constant toil and single blessedness She did not think of its holiness, its responsibility, its many trials. While she was wrapt in her reveries, a servant knocked at her door, and informed her that her Italian teacher was waiting for her in the parlor.

"Tell him I will come down as soon as possible," she said, rising quickly, from her seat, and laving her face in cold water, to remove traces of her tears. Then she stood before her mirror, and after smoothing her hair, carelessly twined a pale rose-bud among her ringlets. Her agitation had given her a color; she dwelt for a moment on her matchless beauty, then sighed heavily, and bent her eyes down

in her glass, and train a curl to fall with more negligent grace.

About a month before Mr. Raymond's marriage, Helen was told that a home could not be afforded her beneath her uncle's roof, after the wedding-day. No conversation had passed between Mr. Raymond and the widow, in which Helen's name was mentioned, or in which she was directly referred to; but her uncle seemed to have an intuitive perception that his bride elect would not permit the poor girl's stay. He himself needed her no longer, therefore, he did not care. So she was to be sent forth, to earn her bread, or provide for herself, as she otherwise might. She had been accustomed to every luxury, and this stroke fell upon her with an appalling weight. She shrunk from depending on herself-from being alone in the world with none to cheer and protect her. Her affec-in thought. But she raised them again to look tions had been severed from her early home, and she did not ask herself if duty demanded that she should share the poverty of her little brothers and sisters, or lighten the hard trials of her mother. She had dazzled among the brilliant, and enjoyed the pleasures of refined society. She had been caressed, and had depended entirely on others. It was a hard task now to trust to her single arm, for she did not look above for strength. In her sadness she did not try to think and feel that all was ordered right—that even the unkindness of others might benefit her heart, if she were willing to struggle forward unshrinkingly, and perform the hard duties which that unkindness imposed. Oh! how much easier it is to know how to do, than to do. Helen Raymond was not in doubt as to her duty; she knew right well that her varied accomplishments might support her comfortably, and also aid her mother. But she had not the moral courage, the strength of mind to do, and

Yes," she said, half aloud, as if pursuing a train of thought, I'll have him if he offers again to-day; what can I do that will be better?"

With a faintness at her heart, and a cheek in which the color came and fled again, Helen descended to the parlor. She paused a moment at the door, and the deep dye of shame crimsoned her brow and temples. She covered her face with her hands involuntarily, and half resolved to go back and send word that she could not come-but she heard her uncle's step on the stairs, and she opened the door and entered. A tall man, past fifty, advanced with a gentle manly air, and said, with a kind of dignified playfulness, Well, Miss Helen, I am here today to give you a lesson, spite of your cruel treatment of me the last time."

Helen's eyes drooped, and she made no reply

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marriage with emotions far from pleasurable. Then why not escape while there was yet time? Because she had yielded herself up to discouraging thoughts, in the first place, and now she was their slave. It seemed a greater

She

had set idly down, and regarded only the dark side of the picture, without an effort to brighten it, and the effect was, that the little energy she once possessed was gone. Helen was no uncommon character; we see persons of the same cast every day. She was kind and gentle, and warm-hearted, naturally, and had she been

as she was led to a seat. Mr. Holden was an Englishman by birth; his countenance was mild, although expressive of great determination. He was a man of extensive learning, and there was a certain fascination in his manner when he tried to please. He had been a great traveller, and { impossibility than ever to exert herself. had devoted many years to study in foreign { countries. He was a bachelor, possessed of a competency; but he employed some of his leisure hours in giving lessons in the several languages he understood. He thought himself a great observer of men and things, and, perhaps, in some respects, he was. Above all things, he prided himself on his intricate know-guided aright by a mother, with a home, and a ledge of woman's nature, which, like bachelors generally, he knew nothing about. His views were peculiar on the subject. The softer sex were regarded by him as very soft-yielding enough to have no will but their husbands'—and no delight but cooking for them from morning till night.

Of these sentiments Helen was not aware. If she had been, perhaps at the close of her lesson she would not have been the betrothed wife of Mr. Holden. She had plighted her faith to a man three times her own age. True, she regarded him as being noble, benevolent in his feelings, and mild in his temper. But when the irrevocable word had passed her lips, a sudden thrill of fearful foreboding shot across her heart -a deeper, sterner sadness settled upon her soul, although it wrought no change in her manner. She felt, that with all her weakness she possessed deep feeling-that if the young heart, now a sacrifice, had been placed in kindlier circumstances, it might have been valued at its worth. For the first time she felt the total uncongeniality existing between herself and Mr. Holden. It came upon her with a vivid suddenness that surprised her. She felt as if there was a gulf between their hearts -that she could never admit him into the sanctuary of her deepest and purest feelings-these thoughts lasted but a moment; they did not cause her to waver in her resolution. How strange the infatuation that leads a person to follow the road to sure unhappiness, when energy and firmness might save from danger. Mr. Holden knew Helen's situation, and he proposed that their marriage should take place on the same day with Mr. Raymond's, which would be in two weeks. Helen consented.

dear home, to keep sacred her young feelings, what might she not have been? Good principles had not been implanted in her bosom when a child. No fond mother had taken her by the hand, and nightly listened to her evening prayer. Although Helen had apparently paid no heed to the words of Margaret Kelly, yet when she gained her chamber that night, she repeated them over, and they sunk heavily upon her heart. She was alone, and it was near midnight. Oh! what thoughts and memories and remorseful feelings will not the still hours of night bring up? Then there are no external circumstances to busy us; there are none to look into the depths of our souls, save God—and then, no doubt, fervent prayers are often poured forth, which daylight never sees repeated. Alas! that it should be so. Helen, too, knelt and prayed, and wept under the influence of better feelings-then she rose, and with an unsteady hand drew forth from a drawer a sheet of paper, and wrote-a recantation of her promise to Mr. Holden. She laid the note on her table, and, after extinguishing the light, sought her pillow to sleep, and to sleep soundly, after the exhaustion of her feelings.

When she arose in the morning she forgot the note she had written, entirely. After a while, her eyes fell upon it accidentally; she opened it and read it with feelings very different from those which had caused her to pen it. She was a creature of impulse. That wild, fervent glow was now gone. She half wondered that she had been so strangely moved; those strong emotions had swept over her, then they had slowly passed away, leaving her in a state of comparative apathy. She began to view the subject again in its previous light; she thought over all the difficulties and troubles she would meet with, if left to take care of herself. She thought of fashionable friends, who would not recognise

Until the evening that Margaret Kelly called on her, Helen had been very sad. In vain she tried to throw off her depressed feelings; in vain she jested more lightly than ever-to others sheher, if she labored for her own support; and, appeared gay, but the weight upon her bosom was not lessened. She looked forward to her

more than all, she thought of the continued and daily toil, which was little in agreement with

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her natural love of ease. Once more the letter would be restrained, broke painfully upon her. was read, then it was slowly torn in pieces, and But more painful still came the reflection, that consigned to a corner of her work-basket. she could blame only herself. She had intended Helen's bridal day came, and it was a day of after her marriage, to spend the greater part of unclouded beauty. Mr. Raymond and his lady her time in company; but when she thought of were married early in the morning, and had being alone, alone in their new house, without started for Saratoga, before Helen, who was the cheerful faces of friends around her, she suffering from a headache, and doubtless a heart- could hardly restrain her tears. Her thoughts ache, too, had left her room. Margaret Kelly were diverted by being asked to play and sing. had refused to be her bridesmaid, and Helen She complied readily, and her sweet voice had knew her decided character too well to suppose that low, plaintive tone, which only comes she would change. This caused the poor, in- from the heart. The gentleman who had been fatuated girl to weep more than once. Margaret so abruptly answered by Mr. Holden, stood had been her chosen friend from childhood; she near. He had regarded Helen with a feeling was familiar with all her little secrets, and they amounting almost to contempt, for he could not had loved each other as young girls always love, respect her motives in marrying as she did. without reserve. How many times had they He had thought her weak, cold, and calculating, sat together in girlish confidence, and pictured but when her young voice trembled in the song, the future, their future, full of all that was a tear started to his eye. Pity was mingled bright and happy-shadowless and clear as their with his censure; and he wondered the more own hearts then were. Oh! is it any wonder that one apparently possessed of so much feelthat Helen bent her head and shed hot, bittering, should have desecrated the holiest emotions tears on her bridal day, as she saw her sweet, of the heart. But good and evil are often but imaginary dreams sink beneath the weight { strangely blended in our bosoms, and it requires of reality—and yet she weakly said, "It is my destiny."

At the appointed hour, Helen stood before the altar, clad in a simple white dress, by the side of Mr. Holden. All was still and solemn as a funeral, when her pale lips pronounced the marriage vow. Not more than a dozen friends had assembled at the church to witness her marriage. Helen's eye glanced towards the little group quickly, to see if Margaret was there. But her friend was absent. Mr. Holden had furnished a comfortable house, and thither the little bridal party proceeded as soon as the ceremony was over. That long day how wearily it passed, as acquaintance after acquaintance called in to congratulate the newly married pair. Each time the door opened Helen looked up eagerly, in the hope of seeing her friend's dear face. But no; each time a shade of disappointment chased away that faint gleam of hope.

"Well, Mr. Holden," asked a gentleman, who sat by his side, where are you going to take the bride, to-night; to the opera, the theatre, or where?"

"We shall stay at home," replied the groom; "I begin my married life as I intend to continue it."

The gentleman was silent, and looked rather embarrassed, after he had glanced at Mr. Holden, and observed his decided expression. Helen's eye flashed at this unexpected answer of her husband; it gave her a sudden insight into his character; the conviction that her freedom

{ settled principles and a trust in Heaven, to have the good that is within us always guide our actions.

One evening at twilight, after Helen had been married a few months, she was sitting at the piano, singing. Her whole soul was in the music; every thing else was forgotten. She was for the time, perhaps, happy. Her husband had entered the room unnoticed by her, and was looking somewhat sternly out of the window. At length he approached her, and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She started and turned around, saying, "Ah! I did n't hear you when you came in."

"I suppose not," he replied, in a mild tone; "the piano, I believe, prevents both your seeing and hearing. Helen, my dear, I wish you would give up playing; it is very disagreeable to me. I do not like music, and I don't like to have my wife spend so much time in trifling."

Helen's countenance fell; she attempted to speak once, half angrily, but when she saw his calm look, the words died on her lips. She arose, and closed the lid of the piano, then sunk on a chair, and burst into tears.

"It will be a little trial to you at first, my dear," said Mr. Holden, very gently, "but you will not miss it after you have given it up awhile."

"Won't miss it," repeated Helen, looking up through her tears, how can I help it, when it has been my dearest pleasure from a very child. I can't give it up, Mr. Holden; you don't know how much you ask of me I cannot."

Lonely dear Helen,” said Margaret, look-ber, if you do n't come and see me every week, ing in her young, sad face, with a suddenly touched heart; forgive me for not coming to see you before; it was wrong in me to stay away because I disapproved of your conduct. Do you forgive me? Oh! Helen, do n't cry!"

Poor Helen had not met with a friend before "That Miss Kelly is your very intimate on whose bosom she might weep; and now she friend," remarked Mr. Holden, as soon as she sobbed like a child, and clung to Margaret, had disappeared; "she certainly asks you to whose tears fell as fast as her own. " I am visit her with condescending grace; pray tell foolish to weep, Margaret," she said, "but I where she acquired her soft, lady-like manners?" have not seen you in so long a time; I feared I think I never saw them equalled; or perhaps I you had given me up entirely. O come and see never observed her particularly before to-day." me often; every" she paused, and leaned, "Her manners are what they should be," her head again upon Margaret's shoulder, with-replied Helen, with a glowing cheek; they are out finishing the sentence. She remembered the index of her mind, frank and independent, her husband's dislike to her receiving company, without affectation. I wish I was more like and she bent her face to hide the deep indignant her. I wish—" flush that crossed it She thought of her own rights, too, and she raised her head, and said earnestly,

wife, taking up a book, and carelessly turning features of Helen. One hand clasped the thin over the leaves.

My wish is, that you drop entirely the acquaintance of this Miss Kelly; her influence over you, I am sure, will not be good; it is only for your sake I urge it, my dear."

"Mr. Holden, if you were to urge me to the last day of my life, it would be in vain," answered Helen, with indignant firmness; other things I have given up, and I can yet give up many pleasures. But Margaret Kelly is my friend, she has been a true friend to me, and our friendship shall be broken only when I die. I am wavering in many things, but in this I will never change."

fingers of the invalid, and she half bent over to listen to her low breathings. At length Helen turned towards her, and fixed her eyes listlessly upon her face. "Are you better now, dear?" asked Margaret, gently kissing her, and laying her hand upon her cold forehead.

"I don't know," replied Helen, faintly; "where am I? How did you come here, Margaret ?"

"You are sick, dear Helen, very sick, and I came to take care of you."

"How kind you are, Margaret; I dreamed an angel was with me; I will not live long, I feel it. See, how cold my hands are."

"Oh! do n't say so, Helen, do n't," begged Margaret, leaning her head upon the pillow, to hide her tears. "You may yet get well."

"If it is God's will that I shall die, I am willing, too willing. I have heard you say

"As you please," said her husband, inclining yourself, dear Margaret, that we are never rehis head stiffly.

moved to the other world until it is best for us and others. Oh! I am far from being good, but God knows in my sufferings I have tried to look to Him. If we can but meet in Heaven, Margaret; will we not?" Helen stretched forth her feeble hand to her friend, and over her dying face there beamed a spiritual light.

"How long it was before I turned to God for strength," she whispered again, in a fainter tone; "but He has heard my prayers. Oh ! if I could live my life over again; but no—"

Margaret raised her face, and said, tremulously, "Don't talk any more, now, dear, you

stopped, and covering her face with both hands, sobbed aloud, for she saw her words were vain.

Weeks and months brought no change to Helen; each day her spirit was more crushed. By degrees, at her husband's desire, she gave up music, friends, and the kind of reading that would have been a recreation to her. All but Margaret. Her health began to fail; a deep melancholy settled upon her, and she scarcely spoke, except when Margaret was with her; then occasionally her once light spirit flashed forth for a moment. And yet her husband was always mild and gentlemanly; he provided for all her wants; his tone of voice was always gentle, and he was regarded by his acquaint-will soon be stronger, and then we" she ances as one of the best of men. But he was a tyrant; perhaps unconsciously; still he was one of the worst of tyrants, because his cruelty smote the very depths of a young heart. It "Don't grieve for me, dear Margaret," said was hardly tangible, but it sunk deeply as the her dying friend, but think of me often." unseen arrow of death. Oh! how hopelessly There was a long silence, broken only by the light of her young spirit was quenched. Poor Helen's faint, faint breathing; the film of death Helen had nothing to support her; she could not began to gather over her dark, loving eyes. look upon the past with confidence; she had Margaret bent over her, still and breathless ; knowingly forsaken the path of right, because it she felt that no sound should disturb that holiseemed full of thorns. But now she found the ness. Helen tried to raise her hand; "Marway she had marked out for herself was yetgaret," broke low from her lips. more thorny, and could not be strewn with a single flower. She had been advised by her friends, but that advice had been unheeded. She was perhaps too timid and dependent; her sensitive heart shrunk within itself, and hope abandoned her.

Two years had gone. It was a clear, mild evening in autumn, and every thing without was still and peaceful. In a dimly lighted chamber, two persons were alone. Margaret Kelly, with a pale, but calm face, was gazing on the wasted

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I am here, dearest, and now my cheek is pressed to yours. God is with you, Helen. Oh my friend." Again there was a silencethe silence of death. A calm, holy and beautiful, pervaded that quiet chamber. No sound of weeping escaped from Margaret. No superstitious images came before her, as she felt she was alone. She pressed her lips upon Helen's white, cold brow, and thin cheek. She smoothed back her dark hair, and gazed long upon that form, from which the dear spirit had just de