s was an occupation congenial to his tastes, as it afforded him not
only an opportunity of writing, but of reading, and becoming intimately
acquainted with the polite literature of the day.

He was one day in the editorial sanctum, examining a quantity of
manuscripts lately received, when one, in a clear, delicate female hand,
attracted his eye. There was something in the light, fairy tracery which
instantly riveted his attention. He read it through; "Woodland Winne,"
was the signature,--a _nomme de plume_, of course. He wondered who could
be the fair authoress of this beautiful production.

While thus occupied in conjectures, a gentleman entered the apartment.

"Here, Wilberforce, do you know this MS.?" said Sheldon, holding it
toward him.

"O, yes!" answered the gentleman, glancing it over; "beautiful hand, is
it not?"

"Yes; but who is the writer?"

"O, I don't know that! I have had several communications from the same
pen in the last three months, all exquisite in their style and diction,
and eliciting warm commendation from the literary press."

"And cannot you discover the fair unknown?"

"No, I have addressed her under her _nomme de plume_, and desired her
true name remitted, in confidence, if she objected to publicity; but she
has never seen fit to gratify my curiosity."

"Strange one so deserving should shun notoriety," remarked Sheldon.

"So it seems to me," said Wilberforce, who was the senior editor; "but I
came in to call you to the Literary Association; it meets at three
o'clock. Come, let's be off, or we shall be too late;--these MSS. we can
look over to-morrow."

They closed the office and went out in company. But Sheldon forgot
himself several times in the debate, as a semblance of that delicate
manuscript, enwrit with those clear, sparkling fancies, rose often
before his mental vision.

There seemed to be a spell about it, to charm and lead captive his
imagination.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"The hour of vengeance strikes,--hark to the gale!
As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds.
Such is the hand of Heaven!"

It came at length, swift, avenging justice; awful in might, and none
could resist its angry hand.

The "pestilence that walketh at noonday," swept over the fair, young
cities of the west, and thousands fell victims to the remorseless
destroyer.

O, Cholera! great be the name of him, who, from the mazes of scien