t of rosy
silken hangings shading the couch where the queen of this little realm
nightly sinks to her innocent slumbers.

Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and
already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings.
Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this
sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering
kindness--perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where
cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!

No--her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.

Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her
girlhood has proved unkind--some delightful project of pleasure
perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at
Madame Raynor's _soiree_ by some more brilliant belle--no, no, none of
these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it?
Perhaps--but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously
when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps
because--because--

_She is an heiress!_

That is it--yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one
hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!

Poor little dear--looking upon fortune as a serious misfortune, and
even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the
necessaries of life; for, have they friends--they are true
friends--there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them--while
she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her
thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her!
What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish.
Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the
air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window
steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and
orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold
comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was
humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!

Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:

A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so
charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold
them caressingly within your own--the rich complexion of a brunette
with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek--her hair like burnished jet--eyes
large, lustrous and black--but (alas that