ife's highest aims and holiest hopes. I was many years his
senior--for it is with the tremulous hand of old age that I write
these lines, and I felt sincere and admiring sympathy for one who,
through various perplexities and misfortunes, still retained serenity
and peace.

We were sitting together one starlight evening, in the small
vine-draperied porch of his simple dwelling. Mrs. Germaine was
occupied with household duties, and Theresa, after having asked us
both a thousand unanswerable questions, had reluctantly obeyed her
mother's summons to retire to rest.

"I cannot describe to you," said my companion, "the fear with which I
anticipate the hereafter for that child; she is one whose blended
characteristics are rare, and her fate can have no medium. Were she a
boy, and possessed of those traits, I should have no dread, for with
such energies as are even now visible in her temperament,
circumstances can be almost controlled, but it is a dangerous thing
for her own happiness, for a woman to be thus endowed."

"I think you are too desponding," was my reply; "it appears to me that
talent is necessarily in a great degree its own reward; and though it
is the fashion to talk and write much of the griefs of intellect, I
believe human sorrow is more equally divided than we acknowledge, and
that the joys resulting from high gifts far overbalance their trials."

"It may be so generally," Mr. Germaine answered, "but my experience
and observation have impressed me differently. I never knew,
personally, but one woman of genius, and she was a mournful instance
of the truth of my convictions, and of the fatal folly of striving to
pass beyond the brazen walls with which prejudice has encompassed
womanhood. She was young, fair, and flattered, and fascinating above
any comparison I can think of. Of course, she was aware of her
capabilities--for ignorance in such cases is not possible, and
naturally self-confident, she grew impatient for praise and power. Her
affections, unfortunately, were warm and enduring; but she sacrificed
them, to promote her desire for distinction, and unable, though so
superior, to escape the heart-thraldom, which is the destiny of her
sex, she died at last, more of disappointment than disease, with her
boundless aspirations all unfulfilled. I fancy I can trace in Theresa
many points of resemblance to her I have mentioned--for I knew her in
early childhood. Solicitude on this subject is the only anxiety I