bliss which a young wife so often dreams away in enviable
unconsciousness of its transient nature. At other times, and
oftener, I had feared that her cheek might be pale, and her
spirits broken; that disappointment might have fastened its
poisonous fang in her heart; and that I should read in her
eyes the fatal secret of an unhappy marriage. But I had found
her calm as the surface of a summer sea; and no Virgin Martyr
walking with a firm step to the fiery trial: no dying saint
closing his eyes in the joyful hope of a certain resurrection,
ever seemed more free from earthly passions, earthly cares, or
earthly hopes, than the beautiful bride of eighteen who sat by
my side.

When we entered the drawing-room in Brook-street, Henry was
sitting by his sister. She got up hastily, came up to Alice,
and kissing her affectionately, drew her to a couch at the end
of the room, and entered into conversation with her, in that
kind and eager manner which was peculiar to her. Henry made a
step towards them, and then turned back; and, holding out his
hand to me, said in a low voice, "You are very kind to her,
and so you ought to be."

I returned the pressure of his hand, and answered in the same
tone, "Who in the world could be otherwise than kind to her?"

"Poor Alice!" he said, and drew his hand across his brow, as
if in pain.

He was pale, and he had grown very thin since I last had seen
him. He drew me to the furthest window by some insignificant
question, and then told me that his father was expected in
town the next day; and now that his sister had seen Alice, he
supposed that he would do so too.

"I am glad, very glad of it, Henry; I am not sure if he will
appreciate her thoroughly; but I know she will," I said
looking at Mrs. Middleton.

"She will do her harm," he muttered.

"Harm!"

"Yes, as she has done you harm."

"What harm has she ever done me?"

"Made you what you are,--too good to be bad, and ..."

"Too bad to be good? True; but that has not been her doing."

"Has it not?" he retorted, and fixed his eyes upon me, as if
he would have read into my soul.

After a pause, he said, glancing at Alice, "Take care what you
do with _her_. She lives in a dream; and if you show her but
once life as it is--as it ought to have been for her,--she
will wake, break her heart, if she has one, or that of someone
else, if she has not."

I could hardly command myself sufficiently to speak; but,
laying my head against th