on her. The elasticity of
spirits, the buoyancy of youth had given place to a species of stoical mute
apathy; a mental and moral paralysis was stealing over her.

The slamming of the ponderous iron gate attracted her attention, and she
saw a carriage ascending the avenue. As it reached a point opposite to the
spot where she stood it halted, the door was thrown open, and a gentleman
stepped out and approached her. The form was not familiar, and the straw
hat partially veiled the features, but he paused before her, and said, with
a genial smile--

"Don't you know me?"

"Oh, Harvey! My brother! My great guardian angel!"

A glad light kindled in her face, and she stretched out her hands with the
eagerness of a delighted child. Time had pressed heavily upon him; wrinkles
were conspicuous about the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the black
hair had become a steely grey.

Holding her hands, he drew her nearer to him, scrutinized her features, and
a look of keen sorrow crossed his own as he said, almost inaudibly--

"I feared as much! I feared as much! The shadow has spread."

"You kept Punic faith with me, sir; you promised to write and failed. I
sent you one letter, but it was never answered."

"Through no fault of mine, Irene; I never received it, believe me. True, I
expected to write to you frequently when I parted with you, but
subsequently determined that it would be best not to do so. Attribute my
silence, however, to every other cause than want of remembrance."

"God only knows how I have wanted, how I have needed you, to guide and
strengthen me."

She raised the two hands that still held hers, and bowed her forehead upon
them.

For some moments silence reigned; then, standing before him, Irene said,
with touching pathos--

"My friend, I am so desolate! so lonely! I am drifting down the current of
life aimless, hopeless, useless! What shall I do with my future? I believe
I am slowly petrifying; I neither suffer nor enjoy as formerly; my feelings
are deadened; I am growing callous, indifferent to everything. I am fast
losing sympathy for the sorrows of others, swallowed up in self, oblivious
of the noble aspirations of promise. Once more I ask you, what shall I do
with my life?"

"Give it to God."

"Ah! there is neither grace nor virtue in necessity. He will not accept the
worthless thing thrown at His feet, as a _dernier ressort_. Once it was my
choice, but the pure, clear-eyed faith of my childhood