tion him here.

"At last, at a dinner at his house, when all the guests but one had
successively departed; this remaining guest, an old acquaintance, being
just enough under the influence of wine to set aside the fear of
touching upon a delicate point, ventured, in a way which perhaps spoke
more favorably for his heart than his tact, to beg of his host to
explain the one enigma of his life. Deep melancholy overspread the
before cheery face of Charlemont; he sat for some moments tremulously
silent; then pushing a full decanter towards the guest, in a choked
voice, said: 'No, no! when by art, and care, and time, flowers are made
to bloom over a grave, who would seek to dig all up again only to know
the mystery?--The wine.' When both glasses were filled, Charlemont took
his, and lifting it, added lowly: 'If ever, in days to come, you shall
see ruin at hand, and, thinking you understand mankind, shall tremble
for your friendships, and tremble for your pride; and, partly through
love for the one and fear for the other, shall resolve to be beforehand
with the world, and save it from a sin by prospectively taking that sin
to yourself, then will you do as one I now dream of once did, and like
him will you suffer; but how fortunate and how grateful should you be,
if like him, after all that had happened, you could be a little happy
again.'

"When the guest went away, it was with the persuasion, that though
outwardly restored in mind as in fortune, yet, some taint of
Charlemont's old malady survived, and that it was not well for friends
to touch one dangerous string."

CHAPTER XXXV.

IN WHICH THE COSMOPOLITAN STRIKINGLY EVINCES THE ARTLESSNESS OF HIS
NATURE.

"Well, what do you think of the story of Charlemont?" mildly asked he
who had told it.

"A very strange one," answered the auditor, who had been such not with
perfect ease, "but is it true?"

"Of course not; it is a story which I told with the purpose of every
story-teller--to amuse. Hence, if it seem strange to you, that
strangeness is the romance; it is what contrasts it with real life; it
is the invention, in brief, the fiction as opposed to the fact. For do
but ask yourself, my dear Charlie," lovingly leaning over towards him,
"I rest it with your own heart now, whether such a forereaching motive
as Charlemont hinted he had acted on in his change--whether such a
motive, I say, were a sort of one at all justified by the nature of
human society? Would you