ngagements in her profession,
too, were ceaseless, and her health began to fail under the effects of
a mode of life so constant in its labors, and so apart from the
refreshing influences usually surrounding girlhood. And was she happy?
Alas! she had often asked herself that question, and answered it with
tears; ambition has no recompense for tenderness, womanhood may not
lay aside its yearnings. Her letters to us contained no word of
despondency; she spoke more of what she thought than of what she felt.
Her heart had learned to veil itself; and yet, as I read her notes to
me, the suspicion would sometimes involuntarily come over me that she
was not tranquil, that her future looked to her more shadowy; and I
longed to clasp her once more to the bosom that had pillowed her head
in childhood, and bid her bring there her hoard of trial and care. She
was, by her own peculiar feelings banished from our midst; how could
she return, to dwell in Gerald's home, she who for years had striven
in solitude and silence to still memories of which _he_ made the
grief? But she was no pining, love-sick girl; the high and rare tone
of her nature gave her many resources, and imparted strength to battle
with gentler impulses. But it was a painful and unnatural conflict
between an ingenuous character and a taunting pride--a war between
thought and tenderness. Wo to the heart that dares such a struggle!
Aspiration may bring a temporary solace, excitement a momentary balm;
but never yet, in all the tear-chronicled records of genius, has woman
found peace in praise, or compensation in applause. It is enough for
her to obtain, in the dangerous arena of competition, a brief refuge,
a transient forgetfulness; love once branded with those words--_in
vain_, may win nothing more enduring this side of heaven.

It was the twilight of a whiter evening; the lamps were just beginning
to brighten the city streets, and the fire burned cheerfully in
Theresa's apartment. Various paintings, sketches, and books, were
scattered around, and on the table lay a miniature of Amy, painted
from memory. It depicted her, not in the flush of her early womanhood,
not in the gladness of her hope-tinted love, but as she was, years
ago, in her idolized infancy. The lamp-light shone full upon that
young, faultless face, brightening almost like life those smiling
lips, and the white brow gleaming beneath childhood's coronet of
golden hair.

The young artist was seated now in