"Not so," was the reply; "rather one who has formed a decided opinion of what a woman should be, and who will always seek his ideal, though ever disappointed in finding one who entirely satisfies the demand of his nature. I have known his family intinately since my childhood; his sisters-he has three -are beautiful women, having cultivated minds, refined tastes and accomplishments, which make them charming companions. For many years Ralph has lived abroad, and I have seen him less than others of the family, yet he has impressed me with the conviction that he is thoroughly good, true, and noble-hearted. Every one respects him; he thinks for himself and dares express his opinion; his faults are those of a marked and powerful mind, pride being the most evident."

If I narrate thus the incidents of that evening, it is that I would have you follow me step by step, seeing with my eyes, hearing with my ears, and breathing with my breath read the very thoughts of my heart since that night. I will not weary you, but will make the recital brief.

We met frequently after this, yet remained strangers; for, amongst the many persons in the crowded hotel of a fashionable watering-place seeking pleasure and amusement to while away the summer days, I had but one friend, Mrs. Rose, and avoided making acquaintances, although I know not if any wished to share my thoughts or society.

Amy Rose did, indeed, try to allure me from my silence with her kind words and winning ways; if I failed to respond to her tenderness, it was not that I did not estimate it at its true value; it was rather because my heart had restrained its impulses so long that I knew not how to show my affection by word

or manner.

Dear, artless Amy! I watched her with my eyes and followed her with my mind as the days passed on. I knew she preferred your society to that of all other men visiting her aunt; I saw, too, that you gave her much of your time; and though I could perceive that you regarded her as a child, delighting in her truthful, simple nature, I blamed you for not resisting the charm of her society, lest she should be led away by the fascination your presence threw around her..

The gossips of the hotel were already making observations upon your attentions to Amy, and ventured to question Mrs. Rose, who was rather amused than alarmed; and repeated. all she had said to me, insisting that Amy was a child, and you were not more attentive to her than to other young persons and children who were your special favorites.

She did not see the danger for the dear girl. I observed it, however, and remarked her emotion when her companions spoke to her jestingly of your devotion. Thus were my thoughts drawn to you through Amy; and as in my heart an affection de

veloped for her, a bitter feeling sprung up against you.

Two weeks passed thus-slowly for me, swiftly for the happy when there came a day which must stand in my past "a landmark for life."

A pic-nic party to the woods, and a fishing excursion in the harbor, left the hotel for that day deserted. I had no desire to join either party, although urged by Mrs. Rose and Amy to go with them to the woods where I might find a quiet nook and enjoy the music of the band engaged for the occasion. I resisted their entreaties and remained alone.

The day was spent in occupations that satisfied my mind, and the hours passed unobserved; but as the sunset glory died out of the sky and the purple twilight gave place to the dusk of evening, there came over my spirit shadows of a past so filled with sorrow, that I could not chase away the dark memories gathering around me like despair and overwhelming me with hopeless grief.

I tried to rouse myself, for the thoughts crowding my brain were agony, and I knew well their power to crush my strength and subdue my fortitude. I opened the piano and soothed myself with remembrances of Beethoven, with the strange, weird harmonies of Bach, and broken bits of melody; then a voice, choked and hoarse, burst from my lips with Gretchen's song

"Meine ruh ist hin, mein Herz ist schwer."

The song ended in sobs. I buried my face in my hands with the bitter cry: "How long, O God! how long?"

A voice startled me in the darkness and silence. I looked up. You stood before me.

Confused at an occurrence so unexpected, I did not heed your words till they were twice repeated. You "thought the room deserted-had come for a bookhad entered as I opened the piano, and were unable to resist listening to the music-." You continued by saying-If it were not an intrusion, you would still remain, with my permission, and ask me to forget the interruption by keeping my seat at the piano.

I did not dare trust myself to speak. It was quite dark. I rang for lights, then commenced "Lieder ohne wurte," playing one after another as they flitted through my brain, closing with the "Frühling's lied;" then Schumann's "Traum" glided into the room with its soft sighs and murmurings, to pass away, leaving us again in the hush of silence.

As I paused, you said "I shall ask you for a song I wish much to hear again; it is Schiller's 'Sehnsucht." "

I have since felt that in asking me for this song you wished to lead my mind from the oppressive grief you had witnessed, to thoughts that would bring peace and hope, for, as I sung, my spirit rose with the wild, sweet music, following the poet from

the chill vales of earth to gaze on the ever-green, ever-blooming hills of Paradise; drank in the fragrant, life-renewing air; listened to seraphic voices; saw golden fruit gleaming midst undying verdure; flowers unfolding to eternal sunbeams, and shuddered not at the dark river over which it must pass to reach this land outspread in mystery and beauty.

When the song ended I was calm; faith had returned to my heart. Heaven was again a reality, earth but a resting-place. I heard you say "You sing not only with your wonderful voice but with your very soul; my thanks cannot express the pleasure I have received; this hour's enjoyment takes me back to my life in Germany, where I lived years together, and have remembrances dear to me that time cannot efface."

It was not your praise that made my heart beat quick with a new emotion of pleasure; it was your sympathy for my music-not mine, indeed, but made mine by the great love with which I cherished it. I left the piano to listen as you told me of Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schumann-all my masters-all dear to you through personal friendship and intimacy. That you had known them and reverenced them as I did, giving them a love even surpassing my own, made me look on you with new interest; and I listened with eagerness as you recalled the hours passed with them, and gave me incidents of their lives. You brought before me, also men and women with