e? I know
'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by
The shoot you know the rank and order of
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
For such a shoot?"

Knowles.

The morrow came. Emily was summoned to the library, to hear the reading
of her father's will. With her no worldly consideration could mitigate
the deep grief that pervaded her heart. She derived her only consolation
from a purer, higher source. She was a true mourner, and the acquisition
of the immense fortune of which she was the heiress was not an event
which could heal the wound in her heart. She looked not forward to the
bright scenes of triumph and of conquest that awaited her. She was not
dazzled by the brilliancy of the position to which wealth and an
honorable name entitled her. Such thoughts never occurred to her. She
did think of Henry Carroll; but not in the proud situation to which her
wealth might elevate him, but as a pure heart that would beat in unison
with her own, that would sympathize with her in her hour of sorrow; as
one who would mingle his tears with hers, over the bier of a common
parent. She was not sentimental in her love, nor in her grief. Sighs and
tears with her were not a sentimental commodity,--an offering which the
boarding-school miss makes alike at the altar of her love, or at the
shrine of a dead parent's memory. The desolation of heart and home was
not a trial which wealth and honors could adorn with tinsel, and thus
render it desirable, or even tolerable!

Emily Dumont entered the library. The occasion was repugnant to her
feelings. The unceremonious blending of dollars and cents with the
revered name of her father was extremely painful to her sensibility. It
seemed like a profanation of his memory.

Her uncle, Maxwell, the witnesses of the will, and several
others,--intimate friends of the family,--were already there. On
Jaspar's countenance were no tell-tale traces of the last night's
villany. He looked gloomy and sorrowful. So thoroughly had he schooled
himself in hypocrisy for this occasion, that the scene he knew would, in
a few minutes, transpire, had no prophetic indications in his features.
Like the tragedian who is tranquil and unaffected in the scene in which
he knows his own death or triumph occurs, Jaspar was calm, and his
aspect even sanctimonious.

As Emily entered Maxwell tendered his sympathies in his usual elegant
manner, and so touchingly did he allude to the de