a familiar one to the lovers of
art, and her society was eagerly sought for by the most intellectual
men in one of our most refined cities. In the home of her artist
friend she had been as a daughter, and cordially welcomed into the
circles of talent and acquirement. It would have been well with her
had that measure of success satisfied her, could she have returned
then, without one hope turned into bitterness, to her early and
tranquil home--but it was not so to be; and on the death of her
friend, a year previous to this time, Theresa decided still to remain
in the city, and follow alone the exciting glories of her art. In the
meantime Amy's marriage had taken place; the cottage was deserted, and
Mrs. Germaine found a home with her younger daughter. It was Gerald's
wish that Theresa also should reside with them; but she had declined,
affectionately, though positively; and she was now an exile from those
who loved her best. Her engagements had proved profitable, she had
acquired much more than was necessary for her simple wants; and all
her surplus gainings were scrupulously sent to her mother. I, too, was
frequently remembered in her generous deeds, and many a valuable book,
far beyond my power to purchase, came with sweet words from the
cheerer of my old age.

But this state of things was too prosperous to last always--the crowd
does not permit without a struggle the continuance of such prosperity.
Gradually the tide of public approval changed; rivals spoke
slightingly of one who surpassed them; her impetuous words--and she
was frank almost to a fault--were misrepresented, and envying lips
whispered of the impropriety of her independent mode of life.
Flatterers grew more cautious, professing friends looked coldly, and,
one by one, her female acquaintances found various pretexts for
withdrawing their attentions. Theresa was not suspicious; it was long
before these changes were apparent to her, and even then she
attributed them to accident. Confident in her own purity of motive,
and occupied with her own engrossing pursuits, she had neither time
nor inclination for disagreeable speculations. She felt her refuge was
incessant employment; she dared not even yet allow herself leisure for
contemplation and memory. A volume of her poems had just been
published--its destiny filled her thoughts--for who cannot imagine the
trembling, fearing solicitude with which the young poet would send
forth her visions to the world? Her e