tractions are native and strong as the clasp of the vine's tendril. "The heart needs no bruising, no breaking-only pure air and clear light, and it will struggle up and blossom into beauty. 'Headstrong!'' headstrong!' I hate that word headstrong.' I wish some autocrat would define the boundary of that disputed territory, that unseen spiritual fence' between independent principle and stubborn obstinacy. "Mrs. Elliott is one of those who always thinks her opinion correct principle, wholesome advice, and mine is stubborn obstinacy. How human nature gets pulled and hauled, and mauled and scolded, and driven like an ugly bear or a fiery horse to gratify somebody's principle, or sense of right! That sense of right' has so many shapes and forms I begin to think it is a myth, or one of the lost senses. Mrs. Elliott might as well set the springs and wheels and complicated machinery of her clock in order, by going at it with hammer and tongs, as to take the feelings of the heart by storm. Oh, if the right hand could take the right key, and carefully wind at the keyhole of the heart, the secret spring of feeling would be moved; brain, will, nerve, and sense would act in harmony-the big wheels of thought would keep good time, and the busy hands move tirelessly around the circle of care. Then we wouldn't always be getting out of order, running down, or standing still. Bombard the castle of the will, stormed and starved and besieged, it is monarch still, and no sharp words shall tack down basting threads for the guiding of its lordly way over the carpet of destiny." This was only a burst of indignation-it was not the outgushing of Nepenthe's true nature; like a tired child, she felt like sobbing herself to sleep in a mother's arms. She never could battle or contend; the effort was painful, the reaction depressing. The lancet and probe of reproof were never fit for her gentle nature-but the wine and oil of healing, and the balm and benediction of sympathy. Every great heart has a throb of its own, every great will has a will of its own. Dispirited and sad after this long and tiresome interview with Mrs. Elliott, Nepenthe sits alone and thinks. That roof had been to her no home but a shelter, and now she had no shelter. She took up a book from the table, ac cidentally left there that morning by Florence. It was Shirley. Nepenthe had never read it. She turns its pages carelessly over, and opens at last the chapter giving an account of the interview of Shirley Keeldar with Mr. Simpson, who tries to find who she loves. She is pleased to see any resemblance between her situation and the fortunate Shir ley. Oh, if I were only rich!" she exclaimed, I could be more independent. The heart is the same everywhere. Every human heart is human, but who shall conquer its love, or quell its hate? This secret of my love shall never escape me by any ordeal. It shall not be dragged out and burned at the stake of ridicule. I will hoard and hide it in the safe of my heart, and no burglar tongue or assassin hand shall force the lock. He who has the key alone shall open the safe, or the secret shall die with me; and in heaven, where kindred souls like stars cluster together, my soul may find its twin wanderer. Here this love can never go back in my heart and die. 'As if a rose should shut, and be à bud again.'" Florence Elliott's love for Carleyn was becoming the ruling passion of her life. Madame Future had lain aside her veil and talked with her face to face. Florence would once have spurned the idea of seeking or receiving such counsel; she went at first out of curiositynow it had become a passion, the woman seemed really to enter heart and soul into her cherished plans. It was an avowed opinion of Florence's, that it was no greater sin to express wrong than to feel wrong: she believed in expressing what she felt, if convenient. Her love and pride were both gratified in receiving attentions from the distinguished young Carleyn. She was becoming more and more beautiful since her first consultation with Madame Future, whose directions she implicitly followed. Through her, Florence had found out Carleyn's private tastes, likes, and dislikes. He loved poetry, flowers, and simple dress, and these tastes she cultivated most assiduously-buying poetry, surrounding herself with rare flowers, and wearing them as her only ornament in her beautiful hair, and she dressed with the most elegant simplicity. Many marvelled at the great change in her style of dress. To Carleyn's dazzled eyes she seemed like a radiant vision. How pleasant to have such a beautiful wife for a living model! She sat alone in her room one evening, after her return from a party, and recalled his every look, word and tone, as she thought," How pleasant to have him watch my face, and say, 'There, that's a beautiful expression-I'll put that down;' and then to find another beautiful expression, and put that down-to have him trot all these expressions about in his head, till at last he comes out with a beautiful finished portrait-to have my portrait sent to the Academy of Design, as in the possession of the artist, Frank CarleynNo. 101-and go myself, and have admiring visitors ask whose it was and have some one tell them, 'It is the artist's beautiful wife'-'The artist's bride '-that sounds well. Yes, I will be his wife," she said, " or "and she arose, walked back and forth in great excitement, and then paused a moment before the mirror. "Thank God," she exclaimed, "I am beautiful-my features are perfect, my form symmetrical." Madam Future, divested of sybillistic dress, manners, tone, surroundings, dark curtains, obscure lights, colored vials, charms, glasses--elaborately and elegantly arrayed, sometimes goes into society. She loves solitude best, but it suits well her purposes and plans to enter sometimes the crowded salon, musicale soirée and reception. If she stoops to mingle with the common throng, as she calls society, it is to fathom some mystery in its secret net-work, to find out some plot or counterplot, and thus gain some charm or counter-charm. You might look in many a face, and meet no such eye as Madam Future's. If it rested upon you, you felt as if under the full blaze of a brilliant chandelier, as if every salient point in your character were illuminated. Her look seemed to fathom you-her eyes burned like consumeless fires. If eyes fade that weep long, no tears had dimmed her eyes. No, she never wept. The fount of tears had dried long since. Every sorrow she had known, every disappointment felt, had only formed some strange accretion round her heart. That heart never melted to tears. Gathering years of ossification, it turned to stone. As her tears froze away, her revenge grew and burned and fed itself within her heart. She said she never in her whole life had been deceived but once. The next evening after the party, Florence was guided by an unknown hand, through the dark, up many flights of stairs, into a circular room, where all the lights were extinguished. Looking through a long glass properly adjusted by Madam Future, she said, "I see a room-a clock on the mantel. I can plainly see the hand pointing to eight. There's a vase of flowers, and there are rare books on the table and there is Carleyn reading, and Nepenthe Stuart sits at work by the table. She is knitting something-it looks like a chain. He stops reading, looks up and talks. Now he smiles-reads on again. She is looking up, and asks some question. They stand at the window togetherhe points upward. "Yes," thought Florence, "I suppose he pays her some slight attentions out of pity, she tries so hard to interest him." "Contrive," said Florence, " to whisper, or to have whispered these words into Carleyn's ear: Low family, doubtful origin.' Say also, She is engaged to Mr. Nicholson.'" "Yes," said Madam Future, taking the piece of gold from Florence's hand, "there'll be a bal masqué on Wednesday evening-I'll be there-I can tell him something that will make him think." Carleyn sat alone in his room, with a copy of Hyperion in his hand. He had borrowed it from Florence Elliott. Turning the pages carelessly, half a sheet of folded note paper fell out. There were on it a few verses written faintly with a pencil. They were in Florence Elliott's hand. He had heard her say one evening, that she had a careless habit of leaving things in books very often, much to her mortification afterwards. The verses were signed 'F. E.' Florence has deeper feeling and nobler conception than I have given her credit for," thought Mr. Carleyn, as he read the poetry carefully over. "Her few defects may be owing to early indulgence; and her great beauty; and she loves flowers too. How beautifully she arranges them. I am always sure, if a person can write one good poem, he is capable of writing more, many more, if excited by any deep emotion or powerful feeling. If there is any pure gold of thought discovered in the soul, there must be a valuable mine somewhere in the spiritual strata." Florence resolved to go to the great reception the next evening, charmingly dressed, and determined, if possible, to fasten the chain she was quite sure she was firmly rivetting. Never did she bestow such pains upon her toilet, never linger so long at the mirror. Never was her hair so artistically arranged. Never did her cheek bloom rosier, her eye flash brighter, never were her lips rubier, or her voice sweeter. There was not a touch to add, a charm to give, as she threw her snowy opera cloak over her fair shoulders, and went forth to the final conquest. Madam Future, splendidly arrayed, went also. You could hardly know her, so transformed by elegant and fashionable dress. Her long, wavy hair, beautifully arranged, gave her at least a stylish appearance, as she moved with high bred ease among the crowd. Any high-minded, ideal-loving man, to gaze on Florence Elliott's lovely exterior, would say, she is a lovely woman, a true soul and pure heart, must glow in such radiant eyes, and inspire such beautiful lips! CHAPTER XXIX. THE MUSIC BOOK OPEN AT THE WRONG PLACE. "There should be no despair for you "There should be no despair, though tears Are not the best beloved of years. Around your heart forever?"-EMILY BRONTE. THE party given by Mrs. Norwood was attended by nearly two thousand persons. The entire house was thrown open for the entertainment of the guests. The first floor was devoted to dancing, the band being in the hall. In the picture gallery the panorama was kept moving in the evening. The upper floors were arranged for conversation, whist, &c. The basement to refreshments, billiards and bowling. The |