ment. To me there seems a religion in love, and its
very foundation is in faith. You say, dearest, that the noise and stir
of the great city oppress and weary you even more than you had expected.
You say those harsh faces, in which business, and care, and avarice, and
ambition write their lineaments, are wholly unfamiliar to you;--you turn
aside to avoid them,--you wrap yourself up in your solitary feelings
of aversion to those you see, and you call upon those not present--upon
your Madeline! and would that your Madeline were with you! It seems to
me--perhaps you will smile when I say this--that I alone can understand
you--I alone can read your heart and your emotions;--and oh! dearest
Eugene, that I could read also enough of your past history to know all
that has cast so habitual a shadow over that lofty heart and that
calm and profound nature! You smile when I ask you--but sometimes you
sigh,--and the sigh pleases and soothes me better than the smile.

"We have heard nothing more of Walter, and my father begins at times
to be seriously alarmed about him. Your account, too, corroborates that
alarm. It is strange that he has not yet visited London, and that you
can obtain no clue of him. He is evidently still in search of his lost
parent, and following some obscure and uncertain track. Poor Walter!
God speed him! The singular fate of his father, and the many conjectures
respecting him, have, I believe, preyed on Walter's mind more than he
acknowledged. Ellinor found a paper in his closet, where we had occasion
to search the other day for something belonging to my father, which
was scribbled with all the various fragments of guess or information
concerning my uncle, obtained from time to time, and interspersed with
some remarks by Walter himself, that affected me strangely. It seems to
have been from early childhood the one desire of my cousin to discover
his father's fate. Perhaps the discovery may be already made;--perhaps
my long-lost uncle may yet be present at our wedding.

"You ask me, Eugene, if I still pursue my botanical researches.
Sometimes I do; but the flower now has no fragrance--and the herb no
secret, that I care for; and astronomy, which you had just begun to
teach me, pleases me more;--the flowers charm me when you are present;
but the stars speak to me of you in absence. Perhaps it would not be so,
had I loved a being less exalted than you. Every one, even my father,
even Ellinor, smile when they obser