ave suffered, if by it he shall be restored to
manhood usefulness and society, and learn to make his life not a thing
of careless ease and sensuous indulgence, but of noble struggle and high
and holy endeavor. But while I was picturing out for him a magnificent
future, imagining the lofty triumphs of his intellect--an intellect
grand in its achievements and glorious in its possibilities, my
beautiful daydream was rudely broken up, and vanished away like the rays
of sunset mingling with the shadows of night. My Aunt Mrs. Roland,
celebrated her silver-wedding and my cousin's birth-day by giving a
large entertainment; and among other things she had a plentiful supply
of wine. Mr. Romaine had lately made the acquaintance of my cousin
Jeanette Roland. She was both beautiful in person and fascinating in her
manners, and thoughtlessly she held a glass of wine in her hand and
asked Mr. Romaine if he would not honor the occasion, by drinking her
mother's health. For a moment he hesitated, his cheek paled and flushed
alternately, he looked irresolute. While I watched him in silent anguish
it seemed as if the agony of years was compressed in a few moments. I
tried to catch his eye but failed, and with a slight tremor in his hand
he lifted the glass to his lips and drank. I do not think I would have
felt greater anguish had I seen him suddenly drowned in sight of land.
Oh! Mr. Clifford that night comes before me so vividly, it seems as if I
am living it all over again. I do not think Mr. Romaine has ever
recovered from the reawakening of his appetite. He has since married
Jeanette. I meet her occasionally. She has a beautiful home, dresses
magnificently, and has a retinue of servants; and yet I fancy she is not
happy. That somewhere hidden out of sight there is a worm eating at the
core of her life. She has a way of dropping her eyes and an absent look
about her that I do not fully understand, but it seems to me that I miss
the old elasticity of her spirits, the merry ring of her voice, the
pleasant thrills of girlish laughter, and though she never confesses it
to me I doubt that Jeanette is happy. And with this sad experience in
the past can you blame me if I am slow, very slow to let the broken
tendrils of my heart entwine again?"

"Miss Belle," said Paul Clifford catching eagerly at the smallest straw
of hope, "if you can not give me the first love of a fresh young life, I
am content with the rich [aftermath?] of your maturer yea