bowed, not the less devotedly and humbly that it was silently and
secretly. It was to be a bitter parting, not as when she watched to the
last Arthur Weston, who was dear to her as ever was brother to a sister,
for they had the promise and hope of meeting again; but now there was no
tear in her eye, no trembling in her frame, and no hope in her heart. From
the utmost depth of her soul arose the prophetic voice, "Thou shalt see him
no more."

"Alice," said Walter, taking her hand between both of his, and gazing at
her face, as pale and sad as his own, "it is your mother's wish that from
this time we should be strangers to each other, even loving as we do; that
our paths on earth should separate, never to meet again. Is it your wish
too?"

"We must part; you know it, Walter," said Alice, musingly, looking out
upon, but not seeing the calm river, and the stars that gazed upon its
waves, and all the solemn beauty with which night had invested herself.

"But you love me, Alice; and will you see me go from you forever, without
hope? Will you yourself speak the word that sends me forth a wanderer upon
the earth?" said Walter.

"What can I do?" said Alice.

"Choose, Alice, your own destiny, and fix mine."

"Walter, I cannot leave my mother; I would die a thousand times rather than
bring such sorrow upon her who has known so much. My uncle, too--my more
than father--oh! Walter, I have sinned, and I suffer."

"You are wise, Alice; you have chosen well; you cling to mother, and home,
and friends; I have none of these ties; there is not upon earth a being so
utterly friendless as I am."

"Dear Walter, you have friends, and you can make them; you have wealth,
talent, and many gifts from God. Go forth into the world and use them. Let
your noble heart take courage; and in assisting others and making them
happy, you will soon be happy yourself."

Walter looked at her with surprise: such words were unlike her, whom he had
been accustomed to consider a loving and lovely child. But a bitter smile
passed over his countenance, and in a stern voice he said, "And you, Alice,
what are you to do?"

"God alone knows," said Alice, forced into a consideration of her own
sorrow, and resting against a lounge near which she had been standing. She
wept bitterly. Walter did not attempt to restrain her, but stood as if
contemplating a grief that he could not wish to control. Alice again spoke,
"It must come, dear Walter, first or last, and we