ove of company should attract to him those who
would lead him into evil; but I strove to banish them, and hope for the
best. Our pastor, an old man, who had known Arthur from his childhood,
called upon him, previous to his departure from home, and without
wearying him with a long list of rules and regulations regarding his
future conduct, spoke to him as friend speaks to friend, and in a
judicious manner administered some very good advice to the youth, who
was almost as dear to him as his own son. The young man listened
attentively to the words of his faithful friend and sincerely thanked
him for the advice which he well knew was prompted by affection. During
the first year of his residence in the city, we wrote very frequently to
each other, and the tone of his letters indicated the same pure
principles which had ever governed his actions. Time passed on, and
by-and-bye, I could not fail to notice the change in the style of his
letters. He spoke much of the many agreeable acquaintances he had
formed, and of the amusements of the city, and was warm in his
commendations of the Theatre. My heart often misgave me as I perused his
letters, and I mentally wondered where all this was to end? After a two
years' absence, he returned to spend a few weeks at home in Littleton,
but he seemed so unlike my former friend, that I could hardly feel at
ease in his society. He never once alluded to any incidents of our
school days, as he used formerly so frequently to do, and objects of
former interest possessed none for him now. He called Littleton a
"terribly stupid place," and seemed anxiously to look forward to his
return to Boston. "Surely," said I to him one evening as we were engaged
in conversation, "Littleton must still contain one attraction for you
yet." He appeared not to comprehend my meaning, but I well knew his
ignorance was only feigned. But when he saw that I was not to be put off
in that way, he said with a tone of assumed indifference, "O! if it is
Belinda Merril you are talking about, I have to say that she is no
longer an object of interest to me." "Is it possible, Arthur," said I,
"that you mean what you say; surely an absence of two years has not
caused you to forget the love you have borne Miss Merril from childhood.
I am very much surprised to hear you speak in this manner." A flush of
anger, at my plain reply, rose to his cheek, and he answered in a tone
of displeasure: "I may as well tell you first as last, my id